There are rumors floating around the underground about a group who have been buying up women left and right before they ever hit the sex auction. Whispers laden the streets thesedays, hushed conversations on missing girls of all ages. Ones no one would care about, and the police would never search for.
It all leads back to one place.
The Dollhouse.
Kenzi mentions the name a time or two, but beyond that, she refuses to give up any information. Not out of any sorted twisted loyalty that I can glean from her, but from the one thing that motivates people the most to keep their mouth shut.
Fear.
Kenzi, the serial killing sociopath, is afraid.
And rightly so.
Since learning their name, I have connected the Dollhouse to more than a dozen high-target assassinations in the last ten years. Congressmen, presidents, Al Qaeda leaders, the list goes on and those are only the ones I can find. Who knows how many more people they have murdered or how many events they have controlled?
“You don’t have to go back, you know,” I whisper. The receiving line is dying down, and it won’t be long before I am noticed. Maksim scratches his nose. Another signal.
It is time to go.
With a heavy heart, I turn away from my wife and walk away. She is the woman I once called my weakness and the chink in my armor, but I had been wrong. Ava makes me stronger without even knowing it. I was blind for so long to it.
Slowly, I make my way toward the modest sized SUV parked at the far end of the cemetery.
“They’re already suspicious,” Kenzi admits with a bite to her lip. She follows just behind me; her body angled mildly toward me. It is a smart move. If either me or one of my men makes to incapacitate her, she could easily knife me between the ribs as she makes her escape.
I have no plans to betray her.
Not that she knows that.
Like me, Kenzi dabbles in the art of paranoia and knows what it means to let her guard down. It is a matter of life or death. I can understand her reticence.
Without having to look at her, I already know that her gaze is sweeping the cemetery for threats. Her eyes are counting the shadows behind her, judging the distance of the people behind her by how close their shadows loom.
“If Christian doubts that I believe him, you’ll have another host of problems on your hands that you can’t afford,” Kenzi points out. “Plus, I wanted to kill him the night of the gala, remember? You’re the one who was adamant in letting him live.”
“Christian is just a pawn,” I remind her. “If you kill him, we risk not finding out who the man behind the curtain is.”
“Is that a Wizard of Oz reference?” she teases. I grumble half-heartedly at her, cursing her name. “I knew you’d watch it, you big softie.”
Some of the real Kenzi is coming out to play.
“It was our favorite movie growing up,” she admits, a twinge of sadness lacing her words once again, but this time she doesn’t pull it back. “Every Friday night we used to do movie night together. Me, Ava, and—” she pauses, her breathing growing rapid as memories of her dead sister push and pull at her fragile mind. For just a moment she is a vulnerable nineteen-year-old again. “Anyway…” The false Kenzi is back. “I knew you’d like it.”
“Never said I like it,” I mumble.
“People don’t quote movies they don’t like.”
God give me strength.
“I’ll admit I like the movie if you tell me more about the Dollhouse.”
“Nice try.” She rolls her eyes, I know it. I have a sixth sense for those things. “I already told you what I know. I thought I was going to college like he promised. Instead, when I arrived inEngland, they took me. The moment I stepped off the plane they grabbed me. No one batted an eyelash. Not one person in that terminal lifted a hand to help me. That is how much power they have.”
“Then what?” I push. I need more information; you can’t fight an enemy you can’t see or find. Information is power and Kenzi has that information, she just needs to see the power it gives her. “Where were you taken?”
“It was all very Red Room,” she admits. The false Kenzi fades away to something new. Someone devoid of emotion, her voice sounding far away. She is disassociating from her memories, protecting herself against the trauma she endured. “The very first day they stripped us of our clothes. Made us do everything naked. They said it would desensitize us. They wanted to get us used to being naked and if you push back—” she shivers slightly, her cold, detached persona dropping minutely before her shell fixes itself back in place. “They show you just what they will do to ensure you understand what it means to not comply.”
I stop once we reach the SUV and gaze down at the woman standing with me. In many ways, she is still just a child. Then again, when you grow up in a household like Elias’s, was she ever really a child? Trauma and pain are two key essentials in casting childhood aside, like a wet rag that can no longer be used.
