“Oh. Uh… maybe? It’s Saturday, so more of them would have been home than usual. Most of them are nice enough, so I think they’d be willing to help.”
He’s still writing, but then he stops. “You said you only touched the outside of the box?”
“Yes.” Calla nods. “I picked it up from the floor. Then when I pulled it out of my bag and saw it was for Phil, I brought it to him. I didn’t touch it after that.”
“It looks like there might be a note under the doll,” Blaise adds, “but none of us checked. We figured that was your job.”
“Good.” The man—detective?—turns toward the coffee table. “That definitely is my job. Could you all move back, please? I’d ask you to go into another room, but I don’t like my chances.”
“If we have to, I guess we could,” Xera offers reluctantly, but the detective shakes his head.
“You’ve been in here with the box until now. Just stand back, and no photos or comments.”
My friends murmur agreement, and Butch gets up and moves out of the way as Griff comes to stand close to me—close enough that I can press my ankle to his. The touch wins me a glance and a warm, if worried, smile. Polly and Jordan move closer, their call done.
The detective leans down to rummage in a backpack at his feet, pulling out a pair of disposable gloves and a handful of ziplock bags. Then, as he snaps on the gloves, he crouches beside the coffee table and peers at the box.
To my surprise, he doesn’t immediately take the doll out. First he takes photos from multiple angles, then he closes theflaps and takes more photos. Then he carefully pokes around in the box without removing anything.
“There’s definitely a note,” he reports. “I can’t see it clearly yet.” He glances toward me and sees that I’m watching. “Mr. Marchand, can you hear me? If you can, you might want to look away for a moment.”
Why…? Oh. He thinks seeing the doll and knife might upset me. That’s… kind. I guess someone had to explain to him why I’m just sitting here instead of talking to him.
Anxiety surges again, driven by shame and the stupid feeling that Ishouldbe able to handle this better. Vivi nuzzles under my chin, though, and I concentrate on that and my breaths. I’m okay. “Should” is a dirty word. I’m okay.
I shake my head slightly, letting him know he can go ahead.
His lips tighten like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. Instead, he reaches into the box with one hand and pulls out the knife. In his hand, it doesn’t seem as big as I remember. It looks like a paring knife, the kind of thing a million people have in their kitchens. He takes some photos of it, then puts it into one of the bags.
Next out of the box is the doll, and just the sight of my smiling face on it makes me slam my eyes shut in a desperate attempt to keep panic at bay. I don’t need to see it again. Instead, I focus on my breathing and let my friends’ voices roll over me.
“What are those red smears?” Blaise asks sharply.
“I can’t say for sure, but I doubt it’s blood, if that’s what you’re thinking. The lab will confirm, but my guess is paint, or maybe ketchup.” That’s the detective, his voice steady and calm.
His words make me a little angry. Someone went to the effort of smearing paint or ketchup on a doll? That means they trulyplannedthis. It wasn’t an act of emotional impulse.
“I don’t suppose that’s some kind of antique doll that’s going to be easy to trace to an owner?” Butch asks hopefully.
“Sorry. It’s definitely not an antique, according to this tag that says Made in China. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen something like it at the dollar store.”
“Great,” Harold mutters.
There are some rustling sounds, and then the detective sighs. “Has Mr. Marchand been receiving threatening letters?”
“What?” The question comes from so many throats, it seems to echo through the room.
My eyes pop open. The detective is holding a square of white paper. There’s a faint red smear at one corner, and I remind myself it’s probably paint.
“The way this note is worded gives the impression that this person has made contact before.”
“He never said anything, and he would have told me,” Calla declares. She looks around wildly. “Wouldn’t he?”
“He would,” Griff says. “And me, I think.” He kneels beside me. “Phil? Just nod or shake your head.”
I shake my head, indignance rising to mix with my anxiety and anger. Today’s a whole cocktail of emotions, but I’m not happy that my best friend and my boyfriend think I’d keep something like that from them. I fumble in my pocket for my phone, and still holding Vivi close with one arm, tap out a reply.
No threats. I tell you everything!
