Page 14 of A Touch of Dark
No.
As I watch, he withdraws something from his pocket and my heart twinges in recognition: a porcelain doll with carefully coiffed blond hair.
“Sammy,” I whisper, horrified. “Give it to me!” I reach for it but stop short, inches away, as his posture shifts.
“Should I?” He’s running his fingers through the doll’s hair, disrupting her neat coif. Simon always took care to style it the same way. Like she did.
“Give it back.” My breaths quicken, shallow and ineffective. The doll’s face is visible from here, illuminated by a strip of neon-yellow light. Glassy eyes. Painted grin. Rosy, red cheeks. It’s a replica, but one so damn close to the real thing…
“You can have her if you want,” Leslie pleaded, grasping at my hands. “Just don’t be mad at me.”
No!I fight the memory back with bared teeth. “Give it back—”
He lifts the doll by her tiny waist, and I lunge forward. At the last second, he pulls her out of my reach, testing just how much I want it. Enough that a ripping sound echoes as I clench her tiny body in my fist and try to tug her free.
But he’s too strong. Without warning, he stands, shrugging me off as easily as a gnat. “Sammy,” he murmurs, a chuckle lacing his tone. “It even has a name?”
The color drains from my cheeks. She does. We have a ritual, Simon and I. His favorite tool of torture is my own memory. Samantha. She was Leslie’s favorite character to spin our games of house around. Such a perfect doll, ten times more expensive than anything I could ever afford.
Sammy, beautiful Sammy, was the source behind our only fight ever.
Sammy, stupid Sammy, was the reason Leslie died.
“Please,” I rasp, knowing I could never overpower him. “Give it back.”
“I will. When you return what is mine.” He turns while manipulating something in his free hand. Slender, thin. Long. It extends as I watch: a white cane he taps against the floor.
“I’ll show myself out,” he says at the exact moment I utter, “You’re blind?”
“Have a wonderful night, Ms. Thorne.” He starts for my door, using the cane for guidance.
So the eye covering isn’t for dramatic effect. Yet I’m unconvinced he isn’t putting on an act. He moves too confidently, every motion smooth and assured. Almost like he learned the layout of my apartment down to the slight right angle one must turn to enter the foyer and approach the still open door.
“Pleasant dreams,” he tells me as he crosses the threshold.
It’s only when he’s gone that I remember how to move. I slam the door in his wake and engage the lock. I’m not afraid.Liar, my body claims. Muscle and bone go limp in defiance and I’m forced to brace my weight against my palms to catch my breath.
Tap. Tap.The tap of his cane forms a morbid tune that tracks the departure of Damien.
Eventually, the sound trails off and I’m alone again.
With Simon? It’s his time to shine, after all. Day two. Sammy was the second present. Dread solidifies in my stomach; I know where I’ll find the third.
I push from the door and sway to regain my balance. It’s like I’m transported back all those years ago. Locked in the dark, forced to feel my way through touch. Forward, using the wall as a guide. To the left. Down a little more. Right. The floor beneath me switches to smooth tile, and I feel along the wall for the light switch.
Harsh iridescence plunges everything into stark relief. The white walls I never bothered to paint. The pristine countertops still stained with blood. The broken mirror displaying fractured pieces of a hundred different Julianas.
I had the workers skip this room for a reason.
Simon still hasn’t grown tired of this hiding place. My present waits in plain sight, lying across the sink basin. A single rose, snow-white. A red ribbon encircles the stalk, choking it. The allusion is less obvious than Sammy, but it’s memorable nonetheless. A white woolen hat kept brown curls warm paired with a long scarf in a bloody shade of red.Herred.
I’ll humor Simon tonight. I don’t run screaming from the room or crawl to my stash of wine. My exhausted body deposits me there, right beside the door, and I sit and stare. I won’t remember fully—not yet.
There is still one more puzzle piece to be delivered.
One more day to play the game.
He’ll win in the end. He always does.
