Page 7 of Pretty Stolen Dolls

Her face blanches, just like it does every time I mention what happened. It’s been years now, but it’s still with me, like a ghost haunting me from the shadows. Mom and Dad don’t like to talk about it. They tried to pick up from where we left off when I was a fourteen-year-old girl, naïve and gullible. That girl died in that cell the first time Benny put his hands on her.

The scent of flowers invades me when a woman and child walk past. She’s wearing too much perfume and her blue eyeshadow matches the overstuffed bright blue bag she’s carrying. An item drops from it and hits the floor, rolling to my foot. Bending down, I reach for it and pause. It’s a doll. Just a simple dolly, but it causes all the hairs on my body to rise and my mind to race into overdrive.

Was it a sign?

Is he back?

Did he tell them to drop it?

Is he in here, watching me?

I pick the doll up from the floor and call out to the woman, “Excuse me.” I stand and walk the six or seven feet to the front of the diner. “You dropped this.”

The woman’s eyes grow wide and her mouth pops open. “Oh my God, thank you. She won’t sleep without it.” She sighs, taking the doll and stuffing it deeper into her bag this time. I wiggle my fingers down at the little girl, whose wide blue eyes hypnotize me. She huddles into her mother’s thigh and smiles up at me.

“Jade,” Mom calls when I’m still standing there, my hands tucked in the back pockets of my jeans, staring at the door the woman and child exited through a good twenty seconds ago.

I hate taking time off—too much time to think and dwell and remember. It was rare for me to actually take a day, but I promised Mom I’d meet her for coffee and shopping. I didn’t want to shop at all. Work is where I should be, waiting for that one call to come in, to help me catch Benny. He had been dormant for so long, but I knew deep in my soul he would resurface. Every case I took on was Benny; every victory a middle finger to Benny.

I got away.

I got away and I will get you, you bastard.

“So, what shop first?”

“I actually feel a headache coming on,” I say with a groan, hoping she can’t see through my lies. “Do you mind if we reschedule?” I rub my temple with the pads of two fingers for effect. She’s used to my blow-offs by now and like a good parent, she lets me go.

“That’s fine, honey,” she says, lines of worry marring her forehead. “Go home and get some rest.”

“I will,” I say, though neither of us believe that lie.

Instead of going home, I find myself back at the precinct doing paperwork. My cell dings with a text message.

Detective Douche: $100 says you’re working…

My partner likes to taunt me on weekends when I should be at home, but instead work old cases and go through old paperwork to make sure nothing was missed the first time around. He’s an asshole. I type back with a smirk playing on my lips.

Me: I could use a new handbag.

I go to drop my phone back on the desk when it lights up again.

Detective Douche: HA! You carry your cash in your bra. I’ve never seen you with a handbag.

Dick.

Me: That’s why I need one.

Ding.

Detective Douche: I’ll be collecting my money Monday morning, Phillips.

Double dick.

“Phillips,” Chief Stanton barks, startling me. Clicking my phone off and placing it in my desk, I give him my attention. It’s late; I didn’t realize just how late until I looked up from the computer. It’s dark outside and my stomach grumbles for food.

“Chief,” I nod.

He stops by my desk and leans into it. “Isn’t today your day off?”

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