The line went dead.
I immediately tried calling back, but the number was already disconnected. My hands shook as I added this to my notes. Batch 39. Someone who knew my real name. Someone who knew what Gabriel had done but thought I shouldn't find him.
Silly girl. She didn't understand that finding him wasn't a choice. It was a necessity hardwired into every cell of my reconstructed self. I existed because he'd made me. I'd continue existing until I found him again.
The morning routine helped calm my nerves. Shower with vanilla bodywash. Outfit selection—today called for a pink gingham dress with puffed sleeves and white platform sandals. Pigtails tied with ribbons that had little bells on them, just like my collar used to. Makeup minimal but precise, creating the illusion of innocence that made people underestimate me.
I ate breakfast standing at my pattern wall, memorizing the new connections. Gregory Marsh with his Thursday reservations and secret shopping habits. The medical facility that might be fixing broken dolls or breaking new ones. The transport company that moved human cargo like furniture.
My shift at the bar didn't start until three, which gave me time for reconnaissance. I packed my day bag—regular phone, trafficking phone, knife with the pearl handle that fit so perfectly in my palm, and a new addition: a syringe of ketamine I'd acquired from someone who'd thought I wanted it for very different reasons.
Gregory Marsh's office building was all glass and steel, reflecting the city back at itself. I sat in the coffee shop across the street, looking like any other girl wasting time on her phone. But I was memorizing security patterns, noting when he came and went, identifying his car in the executive lot.
He emerged at 11:47 for an early lunch. Tall, distinguished, wearing a suit that probably cost more than most people's cars. He walked with the confidence of someone who'd never been hunted, never been prey. That would change soon.
I followed him to a restaurant six blocks away, maintaining perfect distance. Daddy had taught me so many things, but I'd learned hunting on my own. Self-taught skills were special, he'd said once. They showed initiative.
The restaurant was the kind with cloth napkins and a wine list longer than my grocery receipts. I couldn't follow him inside—too conspicuous—but I noted the time and duration.Regular patterns were vulnerabilities, and Gregory had so many patterns.
Back at the bar for my shift, I served drinks with extra sparkle, chatting with regulars and watching for new faces that might connect to my web. Matt noticed my mood and raised an eyebrow.
"Good day?"
"The best!" I told him, practically bouncing as I mixed a cosmopolitan. "I found a new friend who wants to meet me tomorrow night. Isn't that exciting?"
"Thursday night?" He knew my habits by now. "You need the basement?"
"Maybe! I'll let you know how dinner goes first."
The shift flew by in a blur of orders and observations. Two men at the corner table kept checking their phones in that nervous way that meant illegal business. A woman at the bar asked careful questions about whether I was new in town, if I had family nearby. I filed them all away for future investigation.
By closing time, I'd refined my plan for Gregory. His Thursday reservation was at 7:30, always table twelve, always alone for the first hour before his "business associate" joined him. The restaurant had a back exit that led to an alley I'd already scouted. Everything was falling into perfect place.
At home, I prepared for tomorrow. The right dress—something that would make him look twice but not remember details. The ketamine loaded and ready. A printed photo of the Batch 41 girl from the seller's files, her eyes holding that particular emptiness I recognized from mirrors.
"Don't worry," I told her photo. "I'll find you. I'll find all of us."
The trafficking phone buzzed with more responses to my buyer inquiries. The network was so eager to sell, so confident intheir security. They didn't realize they were feeding information to their own demise, one encrypted message at a time.
I worked until dawn again, adding layers to my understanding. The medical facility had a sister location in Prague. Three Institute girls had been spotted in Miami last month. Someone in Seattle claimed to have Gabriel's research notes for sale—a lie, probably, but worth investigating.
My eyes burned and my hands cramped from writing, but stopping felt impossible. Every connection might be the one that led me home. Every pattern might reveal the path back to the pink room, back to the person who'd shattered me so carefully that I'd reassembled myself around the breaking.
"Where are you, Daddy?" I asked his photo. "Are you making new dolls? Do you miss your Bunny? Do you know I'm coming?"
The photo didn't answer, but I imagined his voice anyway. Imagined him proud of my hunting skills, my dedication, my refusal to let the outside world erode what he'd built. Good girls didn't give up. Good girls always found their way back.
Tomorrow I'd meet Gregory Marsh. I'd extract whatever he knew about Batch 41 and the network that moved us like chess pieces. I'd add his secrets to my collection, and maybe—maybe—one of them would finally point me toward Gabriel.
The sun rose on another day of my careful routine. Work. Hunt. Search. Sleep when the body demanded it, wake when the mind refused to rest. Serve drinks with a smile, spill blood with precision, follow every lead until the trail went cold or red.
This was my life now. My purpose. My perfectly constructed existence built on the foundation Gabriel had laid. I was his masterpiece, his Batch 47, his good girl wandering the world in search of her creator.
And I would never, ever stop looking.
The patterns would guide me. The connections would reveal themselves. The network would unravel thread by bloody thread until only the truth remained: where to find the man who'd made me into something that could only exist in relation to him.
"Soon, Daddy," I promised the photo, pressing a kiss to the glass. "Your Bunny will come home soon."
