Now it’s your turn, porcelain doll.
Fourteen
RYDER
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. In one fluid motion, I pull her into my arms, shielding her with my body and rush her to the car. The market blurs around us, voices and colors melding into a chaotic backdrop.
“Get down and stay down,” I order.
She rests her head on her knees, obeying without question. I slide into the driver’s seat and peel out, weaving the truck between parked cars.
I check the rearview mirror, twisting to check behind us. No one’s following. I merge onto the highway, and only then do I allow my muscles to relax. “You can sit up now. We’re clear. No one is following.”
She rises, her movements hesitant. Her face is pale, her usually red lips almost blue. She looks small and vulnerable, nothing like the vibrant woman from just minutes ago.
“Are you okay?”
She nods, but I see her hands shaking in her lap.I take one of her hands in mine, placing it on my thigh and cover it with my own, willing my warmth into her icy skin.
“I’m here, Cora,” I say. “Everything’s okay.”
“Can you call me ‘Little Trouble’ again? I like it when you call me that,” she says, her voice quivering.
“Everything’s okay, Little Trouble,” I say, my thumb tracing circles on the back of her hand. “Breathe.”
Slowly, the color returns to her face, a natural blush creeping back into her cheeks. I don’t let go of her hand, and she doesn’t pull away.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“Porcelain doll. Does that phrase mean anything to you?”
She shudders. “Not that I can think of. But it’s the same phrase the mugger used.”
My mind races, connecting dots I hadn’t even realized were there. “He called you a porcelain doll?”
“Yes,” she confirms. “Didn’t think much of it at the time.”
It’s too unique a phrase to be coincidental. And the message was clearly sent to scare her. Maybe it wasn’t the same person, but there could be a connection between them. “Who else knows he called you that?”
“No one.”
“Arlo?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “He wasn’t there when it happened.”
“I thought he robbed both of you.”
“It’s a long story,” she says in a tone that tells me not to push further.
“What about your father? Did you tell him what the mugger said?” The father who covered up the robbery his family experienced. I’m still not sure he’s clean, despite myinvestigations turning up nothing. And I haven’t found a connection between the incidents.
“My father? Why are you asking about him? No. I didn’t tell him about it. I didn’t think it was important.”
I pull up to her house and park in the driveway.
“Wait. I mentioned it to the police,” she says. “Arlo was there. Arlo knows.”
