The Dollmake (The Forgotten Files 2)

A frown wrinkled his brow. She sensed he wanted her. The marriage. She leaned slightly toward him to make it easier for him to touch her.

Instead, he opened the door with a snap. “I’ll think about it.”

She straightened as the night air chilled her skin. “Right.”

“Tessa?”

“Yes.”

“Be careful. Keep your eyes open.”

“Don’t worry about me, Dakota. I can take care of myself.”

The woman woke up in stages. It took time to shake off the smothering fatigue weighing on her like bricks pressing against her chest. When she opened her eyes, her vision was clouded, and she had to blink several times for it to clear. Finally, a white ceiling. She blinked again, pushing away another wave of tiredness ready to pull her back to sleep. She shook her head, grimacing at the dull headache behind her left eye. Think. What happened?

She remembered walking home. She’d been tired and ready to call it a night. And then, there’d been the man on the sidewalk. Smiling. Charming. She thought she might know him. And then a sting of electricity before her mind went blank.

Her heart beat a little faster as she thought about the memory, hoping it was a dream. Gathering her tattered energy, she tried to sit up. Her head spun, and for a moment she closed her eyes and waited for the world to settle. Finally, she glanced at her chest and the white cotton nightdress with fine lace and wondered where it came from. It wasn’t hers.

Searching the room, she saw only simple white walls. There was the chair where she lay but no other furniture. No window. Only a door. She pushed off her covers and swung her feet to the cold tile floor. She tried to stand, but her legs wobbled. Seconds passed as she steadied herself. And then, straightening her shoulders, she shuffled to the door, tottering much like a novice sailor trying to find her sea legs.

She tried the door handle and discovered it was locked. She twisted it again. And again. It didn’t open. Her panic growing, she called out, “Help! Where am I?”

She strained to hear an answer, but she heard only the silence and the beat of her thudding heart. Keys jangled on the other side of the door.

“Help me, please!” A key rattled in the lock, and she automatically ran a trembling hand over her head. Instead of hair, she felt only smooth skin. Both hands shot to her scalp and eyebrows, and she realized not one wisp of hair remained.

Frantic, she stared at her arms and legs and realized in horror there was no hair. She grabbed the folds of the nightgown and saw her pubic hair was gone. There wasn’t one strand of hair on her body.

The door handle twisted, and she staggered in fear. As much as she prayed a savior had arrived, she knew whoever was there was evil.

Hinges swung silently open to reveal a man carrying a tray of soup and crackers. “Good, you’re awake, Harmony. I need for you to eat.”

Anger mingled with fear. “My name isn’t Harmony.”

“It is now, Harmony.”

“No.”

“It’s time to eat,” he said. The matter was closed.

“I don’t want to eat. I want to get out of here.”

“You have to eat,” he said gently. “If not, I’ll have to force-feed you, and you won’t like it.”

She touched her bald head with trembling fingers. “What happened to my hair?”

He set the tray on the edge of her bed. “I removed it all, of course, Harmony.”

Tears pooled in her eyes as an overwhelming sense of loss and hopelessness washed over her. “Why?”

He twisted his lips into what he must have imagined was a friendly smile. “I need a blank canvas to work with.”

“What do you mean?” She teetered, her head spinning from standing.

He placed his hand under her elbow, catching her before she stumbled. With care, he walked her back to the bed and helped her sit. He smoothed his hand over her lips. “You need to eat and take care of yourself.”

Her stomach grumbled and her vision blurred again. The smell of the soup was making her hungry. She ignored the hunger pangs, fearing more drugs. “I’m not eating.”

“You’ve not eaten in two days. You need your energy.”

“Two days?” Heart racing from fatigue, she scanned the plain white room, knowing without a clock or a window she had only him to rely on to mark the time. “People will miss me. They’ll call the police.”

“Shh. Don’t worry. I used your phone and texted all the right people. No one is fretting about you. When they do start to look, our work will be finished. Your transition will be complete.”

Transition. She glanced at her arms and hands. “Why did you remove my hair?” Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she prayed this was all a terrible dream. Please, let me just wake up.

He gently took her hand in his and raised it to his lips. “I know you miss it now, but soon you won’t. Soon you’ll understand, and it’ll all be worth it.”

“Worth what?” If she had the energy, she’d snatch her hands free and hit him. Run. Do something.

He held up the bowl of soup and coaxed her lips open with the spoon. “My art will dazzle you.”

She swallowed the soup, savoring the warmth and taste. He fed her another spoonful and another, and soon the bowl was empty.

“You’re such a good girl,” he said.

Her eyes felt heavy, and her vision slipped out of focus. She felt the darkness creeping closer.

“It’s okay,” he said. He set the bowl aside and carefully lowered her against the headrest.

“Please don’t do this.”

“Shh. It’s going to be fine. Complete beauty doesn’t happen overnight, but the next time you wake up, you’ll thank me.”

Tears welled in her eyes and then fell. “What are you doing to me?”

He kissed her softly on the lips. “I’m making you perfect.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Saturday, October 8, 6:00 a.m.

After Tessa left, Sharp was too restless to sleep. He’d called Vargas and told her about Elena Hayes. She’d promised to follow up. Finally, he was able to grab a couple of hours of restless sleep but then gave up and went into the office. He spent time watching the surveillance tape of the park entrance where Diane Richardson’s body had been found.

He was reviewing footage from a nursing home across the street from the park when he spotted the white van pull up to the park entrance at two in the morning. The van moved slowly past the “Closed at Sunset” sign. Five minutes later, the driver circled back and drove into the park, vanishing.

Sharp paused the picture and magnified the image only to discover the Virginia license plate had been obscured by splashes of mud. He sat back in his chair and replayed the footage dozens of times, searching for any scrap of evidence that would tell him who owned or drove the van. There was a two-second portion of the video when the driver’s side of the van slid under the light. The driver was male, but a black skullcap and an upturned collar hid his face. The splay of light on the vehicle revealed no markings on the van, though there were faint shadows of past lettering. The windows were tinted, and the back fender was dented.

The van remained in the park for ten minutes and thirty-two seconds, and when it left, the driver kept his face turned from the cameras. The vehicle drove southeast away from the park.

Sharp pulled up satellite maps of the area and discovered there were no stores or gas stations equipped with cameras in that direction.

“You’ve thought this through carefully, you son of a bitch,” he whispered.

He then flipped through the discs collected from the homes around Diane Richardson’s house and searched for signs of the white van. He plowed through several weeks of footage. He was hoping the tapes covered more time but quickly discovered the cameras had storage-capacity constraints.

One camera across the street captured footage of Stanford Madison going up Diane’s front steps twice, bearing flowers. The first time had been eight weeks ago. Madison rang her doorbell sever

al times, and when she didn’t answer, he pounded on her door. Finally, when she didn’t appear, he threw the flowers at the front door and left. Six weeks ago, Madison visited Diane a second time. This time she answered the door, but she didn’t come outside. He shouted. Raised a fist. She slammed the door.

From the camera mounted on the house next to Diane’s, the recording caught footage of parked cars and houses across the street. On the far west corner of the block, he spotted a white van. The resolution was too blurred for him to see the driver or get a plate, but the white van sat there for over an hour before it slowly drove off.

The killer had been stalking her.

Sharp called Vargas and updated her on his findings. She promised to meet him at the artist’s studio right away.

He drove to Madison’s studio and parked across the street. As he crossed, Vargas pulled in behind his car. A few quick steps and she caught up to him.

“Thanks for the heads-up,” she said. Dark under-eye smudges told him she’d not been sleeping much either. “Doesn’t look like there are any signs of Madison.”

There were no lights on. The display windows had been shuttered from the inside, and the front entrance was locked.

“He’s gone.”

“Think our visit spooked him?”

“Maybe.” Irritated, Sharp nodded toward the narrow side alley that led around the building.

“He could be distraught over Diane’s death. You said the footage suggested he was trying to give her flowers. Men give flowers when they’re trying to get out of the doghouse.”

“That’s the only reason?”

“Basically.”

He’d never given Tessa flowers. Never brought them to his mother’s or sister’s graves. “Flowers are an empty gesture.”

Vargas shook her head. “Spoken like a man.”

Would Tessa have liked flowers? She’d never struck him as the flowers type. But then he’d consistently read her wrong from the outset. He could recall dozens of details about her. The way she sang in the shower. How his T-shirts skimmed the top of her thighs as she was cooking breakfast. The feel of her rubbing the tension from his neck. She could make him so damn hard with just the simplest of touches. But did she like flowers?

“You like to receive flowers?” Sharp challenged.

“Sure.”

“Even if the guy is in the doghouse?”