The doll was one of those ugly little trolls with a scrunchedup face and a naked stocky body and shocking neon-pink hair. Only this one had been altered. Sophie had used a Sharpie to streak its pink hair, and to paint its fingers and toes her favorite color: black. She’d even given it a piercing, shoving a tiny silver stud through its wide, flat nose. She called it her lucky doll.
“Here, keep him,” she’d said, pressing the doll into Rafe’s hand and forcing him to close his fingers around it.
“I’m not keeping Goober.”
“His name is Goob, and I want you to have him. This way you won’t forget me while I’m gone.”
Rafe had tossed the doll onto the bed behind him as he reached for Sophie, pulling her down onto his lap and squeezing her, crushing her against his chest as he inhaled the scent of her cheap strawberry shampoo. He didn’t want to think about letting her leave. “Damn it, Soph, don’t go. I don’t want to have to remember you with some fucked-up doll.”
Sophie gazed up at him, her eyes glittering. She’d cried so many times since she’d told him she was leaving that he wondered how she could possibly be doing it again. He, on the other hand, hadn’t shed a single tear, and he knew that made him some kind of prick or something, but he didn’t care, he was too pissed to cry. “I mean it, Sophie. Stay with me; I’ll keep you safe. If that bastard tries to come anywhere near you—”
She shook her head, wisps of her dirty-blond hair tickling his chin. “My mom needs me, Rafe.” She pushed away from him, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “She can’t take care of Jacob by herself. She can’t get a job if she can’t afford a babysitter, and she can’t get a babysitter without a job.”
“So you’re supposed to . . . what? Just quit school so you can babysit your little brother? Connie’s supposed to be the mom, not you.” Same goddamn argument, different goddamn day. One he’d already lost, even before it had started.
And Sophie knew it. She bit the ring in her lower lip, the sparkle in her impish pale-gray eyes telling him she was no longer interested in fighting. She shoved him backward until he fell onto his twin bed—the one that was almost too cramped for the two of them. Almost. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he felt the familiar jolt, the charge of electricity he always felt whenever their skin touched. She pressed her chest—her breasts—against him. Sophie was great at distractions. “C’mon, it won’t be forever. I’ll only stay until she can get settled somewhere, get a job, and get Jakey into day care or something. Then I’ll come back.” She nuzzled his neck, her lips and her tongue promising all of the things her words didn’t.
He sighed, surrendering to everything she offered. But if he was going to let her go, he needed her to have a keepsake too. He tugged at the ring on his finger, a black stone surrounded by carved stainless steel that he’d picked up when they’d gone to get her lip pierced. He’d bought it because of its cool biker vibe, but it had never meant anything to him. Until now.
“I want you to have this.” He inched back just far enough so he could hold the ring between them.
Sophie’s eyes filled with tears again. He loved that about her: she was an emotional wreck.
He grinned. “Does that mean you’ll take it with you?”
She sniffed, her fingers shaking as she took the ring. “Does that mean you’ll keep Goob?”
Rafe grimaced. He reached behind him, his hand searching for the ugly-ass doll. When he found it, he held it up by the tips of its hair. “I’ll keep him safe till you come home, but then you have to take him back.”
Sophie slipped the chunky steel onto her finger. It was way too big and it spun in loose circles, even when she tried it on her thumb. “I’ll get you a chain,” Rafe promised. “You can wear it around your neck.”
She’d left just three days later. That was less than two weeks ago.
Rafe hated her for leaving that doll with him. If he’d never had it in the first place, he might not be here now.
He jerked his hand out of his pocket as he tried to remember what number he was on. He didn’t want to lose track of how many steps he had left . . . not now, not when he was so close.
Twenty-seven.
A part of him wondered what would happen if he just turned around, if he stopped counting and went back to the interstate. If he went home. Ignored the dream.
He laughed under his breath, an ugly sound. Like I could do that, he thought bitterly. Especially not this time.
Even with no light to show him the way, he knew
he was close. And he knew it was time to make the call.
Thirteen.
Still walking, he reached for the cell phone again, but he hesitated before dialing. He wasn’t sure he was ready to ask for help yet; he didn’t know if he was ready to trust anyone with his secret.
But what if he was right? What if it had been more than a simple dream?
Five.
He stopped. He could see the ghostly shadow of a tiny house now; it was quiet and dark. There were no lights on—inside or out. His skin tightened painfully as he stared at its inky cutout against the backdrop of trees. It was a carbon copy of the house from his dream. He hit Enter on the phone and waited.
“Agent Sara Priest speaking.” Her voice was familiar, even behind the crisp, clipped facade she used for the FBI.