Page 87 of Pretty Stolen Dolls

In every dream, it’s always the same. I tell her what I can’t physically say.

“Shhh,” she whispers. “It will all be over soon.”

“I killed our parents,” I sob. “They’re dead because of me.”

Thud.

“Daddy was so consumed with teaching us about monsters,” she murmurs. “He never saw when they were right in front of him.” She reaches for me, and I reach for her too. I think she might take my hand, but she places something into my palm instead. It’s cold and gooey.

Thud.

My eyes lower and a scream lodges in my throat.

My father’s eyes.

No.

Thud.

“It’s okay, dirty little doll. It will all be over soon.”

No.

Her hand lifts once more and she brings a white, lacey handkerchief to my face stained with the blood from her hand. A whiff of something chemical invades my senses—not at all what I was expecting—and then everything fades back to nothingness.

Dillon

LEAVINGJADE AT THE APARTMENT, knowing she’s going out of her mind, is getting harder with each new day. We have nothing. Zero. Fucking zilch. This Adam Maine is our last hope for a lead. Anything he can tell us could give us something to run with.

We need to find this sonofabitch, get him off the street, and finally give Jade some peace.

My girl hates Benny…Benjamin—whatever he wants to call himself. To me, he’s the sick fuck, and I harbor a unique detestation for him that is all mine to keep. When I finally get my hands on this motherfucker, I will extract payment in blood and flesh. He is coming apart, piece by disgusting piece.

I flash my badge to the guard at the door of Adam Maine’s hospital room and go inside. He looks like shit. Tubes attached to monitors beeping around him and nearly every fucking inch of him in a cast.

“He can only talk in small amounts and we can give you two minutes’ maximum,” a plump nurse with age lines showing signs of a hard life tells me.

I’ll make every minute count.

“I’m detective Scott.” I flash him my badge. “Do you remember where you were held before you were brought into the hospital?”

“No.” His word is but a hissed, painful whisper.

“Can you tell me if the man mentioned a location or why he held you before bringing you to the hospital?”

His brow furrows and he winces. “No, man.”

“No, man?”

“Woman,” he clarifies, his voice shaky.

“Oh, I know a woman brought you in.” I nod. “I’m talking about the man who hit you.”

“Woman,” he states again, anxiety in his voice.

“We know you weren’t attacked by the police woman, Adam, so you can drop the act.” Irritation courses through me.

“A. Woman. Hit. Me,” he blasts in spluttered breaths.

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