Page 22 of Pretty Stolen Dolls

Benny yanks her across the room by her chin, her feet tripping and dragging to keep up. His hand grips the back of her head as he forces her to look in a mirror stained with rust around the frame adorning the wall opposite my cell.

“You’re not a pretty doll anymore,” he growls, pushing her head forward so she can see better. With a quick motion, he pulls her head back before ramming her forward once more.

The sickening sound causes bile to rise in my throat. Someone screams and it takes me a minute to realize the horrified noise is coming from me.

Over and over again, he smashes her face against the mirror. The crunching sound of her head hitting and bones crushing under the force of his strength and then just splats causes vomit to burst from my mouth, spraying out in front of me.

It is the most disgusting and truly terrifying act I’ve ever witnessed, yet I still can’t tear my gaze. Blood coats every inch of him. Benny is a predator who just annihilated his prey. With an aggravated huff, he lets her lifeless body drop to the floor with a thump. He cracks his neck and then slowly swivels his head around, his dark, enraged eyes meeting mine.

The predator is still hungry.

A scream lodges in my throat as he advances, but dies before it can escape. Fear drives me to drop to the floor and wait for the monster pacing outside my cell. I pray he’ll sing—singing will save Macy and me from his wrath.

Dragging myself back to the present, I take a deep breath in before pulling over and stopping the car with a screech of the brakes. Before I can change my mind, I’m already stalking up toward the small, one-story home with the shutters hanging off the windows. What Benny is capable of fuels me on, charging me forward.

Clomping up the front steps, I try to calm my nerves, to take deep breaths like my stupid psychiatrist used to have me do while in our sessions.

Breathe, Jade.

You’re this girl’s only help.

She might be the key to getting Macy back.

I’m about to rap on the door when it flies open. A woman with frizzy blonde hair and bags under her eyes regards me with an expectant look.

“Did you find Alena?”

My shoulders hunch and I shake my head. “Not yet, but I promise we’re doing everything we can to find your daughter.”

Tears well in her eyes as she nods. “Please, come inside.”

I follow her into the house and take a seat in the living room. She sits in the recliner, her eyes on a photograph of Alena on the end table.

Alena is younger in the photo, maybe nine or ten. She clutches a doll with red, raggedy hair.

Pretty little doll.

Tearing my gaze from the picture, I return my attention to the woman. “Did Alena have any boyfriends? Was she ever disobedient? Did you have a falling out?”

Mrs. Stevens shakes her head and clasps her long fingers together in her lap. “No, she was a bit awkward for her age. Never had any interest in boys as far as I could tell. She always did as she was told. A good girl, my daughter.”

This confirms my suspicions.

Macy and I were good girls too.

“Do you have any idea who could have taken her?” I question.

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. You think someone has taken my baby?”

Benny.

“We don’t know that yet, but we need to look at all possibilities.”

It was Benny.

I’m dying to say as much, but bite my tongue. Instead, I pull out a copy of the sketched image I shoved into my pocket from my desk before I left the station earlier. A sketch from when I woke up from that coma all those years ago and explained in detail what Benny looked like. The sketch artist did an eerily good job on making Benny come back to life. I’d wanted to rip the picture from her grasp and tear it into a thousand pieces, it looked that much like him.

When I finally got on the force, I took a copy of the picture from the database. I keep it in my desk drawer as a reminder—he’s still out there…I just have to find him.

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