Page 10 of Pretty Stolen Dolls

And maybe I am a thorn in Dillon’s side, and young, but I won’t be treated like I don’t matter. He doesn’t hold authority over me like he seems to believe. I put the hours in; he won’t even work weekends.

I’m Stanton’s dream detective when it comes to solving tricky cases and finding the tiny details everyone else misses. When I’m pouring over the files and evidence, I’m in my element. The clues don’t evade me. I make sense of the madness.Because I’ve lived within it.

It’s the people I have a problem with.

People like Dillon Scott.

The gossip mill at the station is strong. I hear the whispers and see the looks as people pass me. They all know. Everyone knows I was abducted with my sister when I was fourteen and I somehow managed to escape when I was eighteen, leaving my then thirteen-year-old sister behind. Each person knows I nearly died the day I escaped when I was hit by a Ford pickup truck. Hell, it’s in the system—they only have to seek the information out on their computer and it’s all there for them to see. To make assumptions about me and talk in hushed voices over drinks at the bar…they’re about as subtle as your boyfriend going down on you wearing a gas mask.

After the accident, I’d spent three weeks in a medical induced coma due to internal bleeding and swelling of my brain, and when I woke up, I remembered nothing.

I remembered Benny, or Benjamin…or whoever the fuck he really is, and him taking us. I remembered the way his slick skin felt on mine as he took what didn’t belong to him late into the evenings. I remember in the beginning the wayshecried every night until she fell asleep. The worst part of remembering are certain triggers that affect me in my everyday life. I can shoot a man who pulls a weapon on me, but I can’t go to the bathroom in the middle of the night without a light on. The shadows taunt me; they watch me and hide the monsters that could be lurking there. I remember the deafening silence of my dream state. He stole everything from me in the end—even my dreams. I remember his scent, taste, height, how heavy he was when he pinned me to the small bed.

I just couldn’t remember anything else.

The important stuff. Where I ran away from. How long I’d been running before the truck hit me. How long we drove from the flea market the day he took us. The make and model of his van. Branding on any food he gave us. Any sort of detail that could help. Police asked me these questions, and they were the same questions I’ve since asked many other victims throughout my time on the force.

It always leads to nothing.

The police canvased the area for miles from the accident. No house went unchecked. It was as if I appeared out of thin air.

And I’ve been looking for her ever since.

Until I find her, I do what I can to find other missing girls. They call me the tracker, in jest.

I’m ruthless and tend to bend rules when I need to in order to solve missing person cases.

Chief Stanton and Lieutenant Wallis are always on my ass for it. I’ve been written up more times than I can count for chasing rabbits without backup right into the lion’s den. So far, I’ve been lucky, and I’ll take all the luck I can get. I need it to find her. I’ll never give up on her.

But my determined personality is what makes me go through partners like most people change their underwear. Nobody likes working with me. Dillon’s lasted the longest, I’ll give him that. He’s a prick though and nobody likes partnering with him either. We’re an unlikely pair.

The entire route to the mall, I wonder if this missing girl could be the link to finding my sister. It’s how I treat each missing person case. With a fine tooth comb, I rake through the details until I shake out all the clues and leads. Our precinct leads the state on solved cases, and because of this, the woman with the most write-ups on her record also has the most accolades. It drives the boys in the department nuts.

I don’t care about them, though. Or the awards.

I don’t care if I get written up a thousand times.

All I care about is findingthem.

Findingher.

I may have always wanted to be in the police force, but afterhim, after leaving her, I had to be. I needed the best position and resources at my disposal to help me hunt him down.

“This place has really gone to shit since the nineties. Back in my day, this mall was a respectable place to hang out. We were good kids and didn’t get into any shit. Now, it’s full of fuckin’ gangsters. Look,” Dillon points as he circles a group of mostly dark-skinned teens, “point made.”

I roll my eyes as he stops the squad car. “You’re a redneck racist, Scott. Those kids look like normal teens to me. You go inside and question the respectable people. I’ll talk to the ‘gangsters’.” I smirk at him, which earns me a muttered, “Fuck you, I wasn’t referring to their skin color.”

“If I get ‘clipped’ while you’re inside, it was nice knowing you,” I add, bringing my fingers up to my lips to mimic being afraid. He grumbles, but doesn’t reward me with a reply as he stalks off. I approach the “gang” with purpose.

Find the girl.

“Detective Phillips. I’d like to ask you guys a couple questions,” I say, revealing my badge on my belt.

A couple of the teen boys look nervous and hiss under their breath, but I’m not here to bust them for a little pot or whatever it is they’re worried about. I only care about finding the girl.

Pulling my phone from my blazer pocket, I hold up a picture of the missing person. Alena Stevens. Her bright blue eyes haunt me. She’s sweet and innocent.Like I was.

“Were you kids here yesterday?”

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