Then back to the floor, back to the patterns, back to the obsessive documentation of a network that dealt in broken girls. Thursday couldn't come fast enough. Gregory Marsh had no idea what was coming to dinner.
But I did. And I could hardly wait to make his acquaintance properly.
4
Regular
"Good afternoon, Mr. Marsh!" I chirped, adjusting the plastic sheeting with practiced efficiency. "Thank you so much for accepting my dinner invitation. Though I suppose the ketamine didn't really give you much choice, did it?"
Gregory Marsh blinked awake in the basement chair, his Thursday reservation suit already showing wrinkles. The transition from five-star restaurant to Matt's basement always took them a moment to process. That lovely second where reality shifted and they realized the sweet girl from the alley wasn't quite what she seemed.
"I brought visual aids!" I showed him the printed photos of Batch 41, spreading them across the rolling table like tarot cards. "Since we're going to talk about your recent purchase. The seller—Mercury, so mysterious!—said you had very specificrequirements. Something about wanting a girl who could be 'properly maintained.'"
His eyes focused with that sharp clarity of adrenaline overriding sedatives. "You don't understand. I can explain—"
"Oh, I love explanations!" I pulled up my stool, smoothing my pink dress. Today's ensemble featured little strawberries on the print, with matching hair clips. So festive! "But first, let's establish some ground rules. Every lie you tell means we go deeper. Every truth brings us closer to resolution. Daddy taught me that honesty hurts less in the long run, though he might have meant it differently than how I apply it now."
The tools were already laid out in order of escalation. I'd gotten more organized since David-or-Daniel, labeling everything with cheerful stickers. The bone saw had a smiley face. The scalpels were arranged in a rainbow.
"Let's start simple. Where is the Batch 41 girl now?"
"I don't know what you're—"
I picked up the gardening shears before he finished. The ones with the ergonomic grip that made long sessions easier on my wrists. "That's your one free lie, Mr. Marsh. Because I know you know. Your encrypted messages were very detailed about the pickup location and transfer requirements."
His breathing quickened as I positioned the shears around his left pinky finger. Such delicate bones, fingers. Like bird wings.
"Safe house!" The words burst out. "North of the city. 482 Riverside Drive. She's there with two handlers."
"See? That wasn't so hard!" I set the shears down and made a note in my glitter pen. "Now, tell me about her condition. The seller mentioned 'behavioral modifications needed.' What does that mean exactly?"
Gregory's jaw worked like he was chewing words before spitting them out. "She... she remembers things. Before theconditioning. Keeps trying to call some number that doesn't exist anymore. Cries for someone named Claire."
My chest tightened. Claire. A real name, a before-name. Evidence that we'd been people once, before Gabriel's careful hands reshaped us into dolls.
"And you were going to fix that? Make her forget Claire?"
"There's a specialist." He watched my hands like they were venomous snakes. "Dr. Petrova. She can... reinforce conditioning. Make them compliant again."
"Them?" I leaned forward, genuinely curious now. "How many Institute girls has she worked on?"
"I don't know exactly. Maybe a dozen? Two dozen? She has a clinic—"
"Where?" The shears were back in my hands without conscious thought.
"Prague! The clinic's in Prague. But she travels here quarterly. Next month, actually."
I made more notes, the web growing larger with each revelation. Dr. Petrova who could fix broken dolls. Who could push Claire back down until only the conditioned girl remained. Part of me wondered if she could fix what was wrong with me—this obsessive need to find Gabriel that consumed every waking moment.
But that was the thing: I didn't want to be fixed. I wanted to be found.
"Tell me about the transport company," I continued, selecting a new tool. The soldering iron took a while to heat up, so I plugged it in now for later. Forward planning was so important! "Three of your little buyer's club used the same one."
Gregory's eyes tracked the heating element as it began to glow. "Mercy Logistics. They specialize in... sensitive cargo."
"Human trafficking. You can say it!" I encouraged. "Honesty, remember? And who runs Mercy Logistics?"
"The Volkov brothers. Russian. Connected." He swallowed hard. "Very connected. You don't want to mess with them."
