Page 86 of Pretty Stolen Dolls

Time passes quickly as I busy myself with my task.

Eventually, the door opens and closes behind me with a click. It’s been over an hour and he promised he would be back in an hour. I pull away from her so I can regard him. His gaze skims over the mess I’ve made. I’ve just finished separating the good doctor’s head from her shoulders and it hangs by her hair in my fist.

It’s really hard cutting through bone. Luckily, she has a kitchen fully stocked with carving knifes.

With a pretty smile I know he likes, I prance over to the tank and drop the head in with a splash. The crimson flow from her neck colors the water in seconds.

“Look at the state of you.” Benjamin’s cold tone drenches me with shame.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, bending down and swiping my fingertips through the blood. With a hasty swipe, I smear it across my bottom lip.

“Cerise, your favorite,” I offer, willing him to come to me.

He doesn’t.

He never does.

“It’s time, pretty little doll,” he tells me, his voice softer this time. “Go wash up.”

MY SLEEP IS DISTURBED—ONEnightmare bleeds into the next. I can’t get comfortable and keep fading in and out, confused by what’s real and what isn’t. Stanton called and said Adam Maine, the hit-and-run vic, awoke in the hospital and his recount is crucial to the investigation. Dillon didn’t let me go with him, though. Apparently it might spook the vic. He didn’t deserve what he got, but it’s still irritating calling him a victim.

The bed dips next to me and warmth floods through me.

Dillon.

My eyelids flutter open and pretty hazel eyes stare back at me. So often when I awake from nightmarish memories, she lingers. My sweet, little sister lingers for a moment and I desperately hold on to her.

Her dark hair is in cute plaits like I remember doing for her when we were little, to keep the heat at bay. The scar is silvery, but still very prominent. Those pouty lips that match mine are painted bright pink. My eyes drop to her pretty dress that matches her lip color.

She always seems so real.

Macy.

Reaching forward, I finger a strand of her hair. Her hazel eyes flicker with emotion, but she doesn’t disintegrate into the air. Not this time—not yet.

I must still be asleep. This has to be a dream.

“Macy,” I breathe, her scent, flowery and pungent, filling my nostrils

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

This time, I’m able to hold onto her for a moment longer. She so vivid.

“Macy,” I murmur.

Thud.

She reaches up for my hand, blood caked on her creamy flesh.

Thud.

The familiar stirrings of my memories collide with my nightmares. In my nightmares, she’s always hurt and bleeding.

“I’m so sorry I left you.”

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