Page 33 of Cracked Doll

I can't stay here. I can't just stand here and let him win.

I turn and bolt back into the shop, my heels clicking frantically on the floor. I dive for the landline, my fingers fumbling with the receiver as I dial the emergency number again. My chest is heaving, my mind screaming for an explanation.

The line clicks open. This time, it's a man's voice—clipped, professional, and entirely cold.

"Emergency services, state your emergency," he says.

"I need help!" I sob, the words tumbling out of me. "I just called! There was a stalker in my shop, he... he attacked me! The police arrived, but they just let him go! Why wasn't I helped? Why did they let him walk away?"

There is a brief, heavy silence on the other end.

"What is your location, ma'am?"

"The Tin Heart," I gasp. "The toy shop in Whitby."

The moment the words leave my lips, the tone of the man's voice changes. The professional facade drops, replaced by a sharp, warning edge.

"Listen to me very carefully," the operator says, his voice devoid of any empathy. "Do not call this emergency line again. Do not attempt to report Rhys Castellan to any officer of the law. Be advised that attempting to file a report against Mr. Castellan is considered a felony offense."

I recoil from the phone, the receiver nearly slipping from my hand. "What? What are you talking about? That's... that's not possible! How can reporting a crime be a felony?"

Click.

The line goes dead.

I stare at the receiver in absolute shock, the dial tone humming a monotonous, mocking tune in my ear. My breath is shallow, my skin crawling. Who the fuck is this man? Who is Rhys Castellan that he can bend the police to his will and turn the law into a weapon against the people he hunts?

I slowly place the phone back on the hook, my heart beating so fast I can feel it in my throat. I look toward the window, toward the darkness where I know he's still standing, smoking his cigarette and watching me.

He isn't just a stalker. He's something much worse. He's a ghost in the machine, a man who owns the very people meant to protect me.

I grip the knife he gave me, my knuckles white. I don't know who he is or how he has this power, but I know one thing: I have to find out. I have to uncover the truth about Rhys Castellan before he decides that watching me from the shadows isn't enough anymore.

It's the next day. He watched me all night, I'd wager — I never once looked to check, refusing to give him the satisfaction of catching me peering nervously through the curtain.

Once I'm sure the shops along the high street have opened properly, I shower, brush my teeth without a mirror, same as always, and dress — a deep bottle-green Victorian gown today, high collar, cream lace at the cuffs, black boots laced to the ankle. Armor, same as ever.

I don't open the shop this morning. Instead I go straight to Aldridge's.

Mrs. Aldridge herself is behind the counter — a round, silver-haired woman somewhere past sixty, half-moon glasses perched on her nose, the kind of no-nonsense face that's seen every strange thing this town has to offer and stopped being impressed by any of it decades ago.

"Morning, love," she says warmly, not remotely put off that I don't meet her eye. "What can I do you for?"

"I'm looking for Amara," I say.

"Round the back, sorting stock. Go on through."

I find her crouched between two shelves of glass eyes, humming something under her breath, sorting little tins by size. "Hiya," I say, careful, eyes on her collar rather than her face.

She looks up and grins immediately. "Ophelia! God, I love that dress on you." She stands, brushing dust off her knees. "You look properly gorgeous today."

"You look lovely too," I say, and mean it — she's in ripped black jeans and a band tee I don't recognize, hair pinned up messy and perfect at once.

"I was actually about to come find you," she says. "Fancy The Midnight Menagerie tomorrow night?"

I busy my hands with a nearby display of wire spools, turning them over, anything to keep from looking directly at her. "Speaking of," I say, as casually as I can manage, "you know the owner, don't you?"

"Rhys Castellan." She says the name like it still delights her. "Saw him the other night, as I told you."