Page 50 of Pretty Stolen Dolls

“Do you have any friends?” she questions.

I sneak a peek at her. Her finger grips the pen she uses for her device and her bushy eyebrow lifts nearly to her hairline.

A sad sigh escapes me. “Not many,” I admit. “But I don’t want any.”

She sits up and gazes at me, compassion flickering in her bright blues. “Why don’t you want any, doesn’t everyone?”

My laughter echoes in the quiet room. “No.”

I watch her features to see if my words affect her. They do. Disappointment wrinkles her brow for a brief moment before she masks it with indifference.

“Let’s talk about you. Last time you were here, you mentioned a sister. Do you have any other siblings?”

I cringe at the mention of my sister. Not one day goes by where I don’t think about her. That I don’t close my eyes and try to remember the sound of her comforting voice.

“No.”

She lets out an exasperated sigh. It’s soft, but I hear it. I always notice the tiniest of details. It’s what makes me so good at what I do.

“I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me,” she says finally, and her eyes skim to the clock on the wall.

I sit down on the sofa and take my time looking her over. Age and her profession, where she sits all day, has seemed to add wrinkles and at least twenty pounds to her already curvy figure. The picture she has on her website reveals a vibrant, younger, and much thinner woman. Seems I’m not the only one who wishes she were someone else.

“I don’t need help,” I tell her with a slight bite to my voice. What could she do for anyone?

She frowns. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

Shrugging, I gulp down the cold beverage. When I’m finished, I set my glass down on the decorative book on the table that wasn’t here last time. Moving my eyes to meet hers, she flinches, but doesn’t say anything. Satisfied, I lean back against the cushions.

“I come here because he asked me to.”

“Who is he? Your boyfriend?”

My boyfriend…no, but what exactly are we?

“You hold affection for this man,” she establishes.

“Yes, always,” I tell her honestly.

She smiles, and it’s genuine. It makes her seem younger. Prettier.

Pretty little doll.

IT WAS ASATURDAY WHENI was taken, but it felt just like this. The same stifling heat. Same bustling bodies reeking of musky body odor.

Why did you come back here?

I thought I should stay true to what I told Dillon about visiting my parents, but instead, my car turned off at the dirt road I used to walk down every Saturday afternoon.

The sun licks at my bare arms and burns against the black pants I put on. I’m standing, looking down at the book booth I used to visit each time. The same woman from all those years ago still runs it. It’s like the place was frozen in time.

Macy and I were never allowed to come on Sundays like today. Sundays were for church. Many times I wished church was on Saturday too. Maybe then we would have never have met Benny.

“You a reader?” the woman enquires, nodding down to a set of worn Harry Potter books.

Shaking my head, I get right to the point. “Are there any doll booths here? There used to be one here.”

She stills, not looking up from a stack of books before she begins laying them out on the table.

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