Page 51 of Pretty Stolen Dolls

“Are you a reporter? Because that story has been done to death,” she gripes with an annoyed shake of her head.

That story. Like it’s one of her fiction novels.

That storyI endured for four years.

That storywas as real as it was horrific.

“Actually,” I lie through gritted teeth, “I’m just looking for a gift for someone.”

Her head lifts and she points through the crowd of people. “There’s a toy booth a hundred yards that way. You’ll find something there, I’m sure.”

“Thanks.”

She doesn’t acknowledge my appreciation. Instead, she turns to talk to another customer as they approach.

My feet carry me to said booth and my heart pounds.

I should feel close to Macy here, but I don’t. All I feel is how much I failed her.

“Hey there, sugar,” a deep, raspy voice drawls. He sounds like he’s smoked a pack a day his entire life.

My eyes lift up to see a giant of a man. He’s covered in tattoos, his thick greying beard hangs nearly halfway down his pudgy gut, and he’s tilting his head to check out my ass.

“Whatcha looking for?”

Running my fingers against the cloth he has over one of the tables littered with toys, I ignore him. He eventually tuts and stalks over to a little girl with her mother.

“Pretty doll for a pretty doll,” I hear him say and almost drop the teddy bear I’ve picked up.

Scanning the child, I notice a porcelain doll huddled against her chest.

“Can I have it, Mommy, please?”

My feet carry me over to them and before I can stop myself, I’m pulling the doll from her arms. The girl gasps in shock.

“Excuse me,” her mother snaps.

“Where did this come from?” I demand, waving the doll to the toy vender.

He scratches a hand over his bald head and stares at the doll, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s not one of mine. She must have picked it up somewhere else.” He eyes the girl’s mom. “Where did she find this?”

“Right there.” Her mother points to the table in front of us.

“Does it have a sticker on it?” he asks, reaching for the doll. I step away from him and check the foot where Benny used to put the prices.

Twenty-eight dollars.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

“That’s not right,” he grumbles. “It’s worth twice that.”

Benny.

“It must be from the stock my wife put out,” he lies, clearly just wanting to make a profit.

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