Page 11 of Dolls of Ruin

“Fine, great, whatever,” Riley said, grinning as she flagged the waiter for another drink. “There’s the Claire I know. Let’s toast to getting your life back.”

She raised her glass, and I tapped mine against it half-heartedly, the ice clinking like an offbeat metronome.

The streets were quiet as I made my way back to the shop, the cold biting at my exposed fingers. The faint scent of someone’s fireplace lingered on the wind, mixing with the smell of damp asphalt.

The plan was beginning to take shape in my mind. I’d clean each doll carefully, photograph them, and write up detailed listings. If I spread the word in the right places, I could make sure they ended up with people who would appreciate them—and maybe feel less like I was abandoning them.

But the thought of letting them go still twisted something in my chest.

When I reached the shop, I hesitated outside, staring through the glass at the workbench. The dolls sat perfectly still, their painted faces catching the glow of the streetlights.

A flicker of movement drew my attention to the far corner of the shop. I froze, my breath hitching as I squinted through the glass. But nothing moved.

I pressed my palm against the cold doorframe, forcing myself to breathe. “This is the right thing,” I whispered, more to myself than anyone—or anything—else.

The air inside was colder than the street.

Nine

Riley leaned against the counter,a caramel latte in one hand and an expression that screamedunimpressed.“You know,” she said, smirking, “if you’re going to go full Pinterest mom about this, at least let me help. You’re too stressed out to have good taste right now.”

I shot her a glare over my shoulder, trying to balance a precariously leaning doll against the plain white wall. “Fine. But no calling them tchotchkes or horror movie rejects, okay? I’m taking this seriously.”

She mimed zipping her lips, but her smirk only widened. With exaggerated care, she plucked the crimson-haired doll I’d nicknamed War from the lineup. “Alright, Captain Serious. What’s the vibe here? Fire and brimstone? Knocks over wine glasses on purpose?”

“Something like that,” I muttered, brushing imaginary dust off of War’s suit. “He definitely feels like the ‘simmering rage’ type.”

Riley tapped her chin dramatically, then set War on a small, weathered wooden chair I’d picked up at an estate sale. She adjusted his arms with theatrical precision. “Let’s lean into it. He’s dramatic.”

Before I could argue, she grabbed one of the antique candelabras from the shelf and placed it beside him. The way the light flickered off his crimson tones made him look, annoyingly,perfect.

“Not bad,” I admitted begrudgingly, crossing my arms. “Though he also looks like he might challenge someone to a duel over a parking space.”

Riley laughed, her caramel latte nearly sloshing over the rim. “Exactly. That’s the energy.”

While she fussed over War’s dramatic setup, I grabbed the pale, almost sickly-looking doll dressed in muted green. His porcelain practically glowed under the shop lights, the faint sheen making him look like he’d just stepped out of a gothic painting. The calm, deliberate expression on his face always unnerved me just a little, like he knew something he wasn’t telling anyone.

“Alright, Professor Doom,” Riley said, peering over my shoulder. “What’s his deal?”

I tilted his head slightly, smoothing out the folds of his suit. “Quiet. Calculating. The type who watches everyone else fight it out while secretly plotting world domination.”

Riley arched a brow. “So...the brainy villain in a murder mystery?”

“Exactly,” I said, placing him next to War. “But smarter. He wouldn’t get caught.”

Riley set her latte down and grabbed one of the tiny pocket watches from the knickknack drawer. She placed it in the green doll’s hand, stepping back to admire her work. “There. Now he’s plottingandpunctual.”

“Perfect,” I deadpanned, rolling my eyes. “Because nothing’s more terrifying than a villain with a strict schedule.”

Riley stepped back to survey the dolls she’d arranged, tilting her head like she was appraising a painting in a gallery. I kept myhands busy, pretending to dust the counter while avoiding her gaze.

I didn’t like to admit it, but the names had come to me almost too easily. The first time I held each doll, the words had just slipped into my mind, unbidden and fully formed. Like I’d always known what to call them.

It was probably just my imagination running wild, but still—explaining that to Riley felt like handing her ammo to roast me for the rest of my life. She’d never let me live it down, especially not with the way she was already side-eyeing me like I’d started a secret doll cult.

Riley picked up another doll from the set—a hauntingly thin one dressed in pristine white, his expression sharp and hollow. “What’s his deal? Starved artist?”

“More like literal famine,” I said, carefully placing him with the others. “He’s unsettling, but... elegant.”

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