Page 55 of Cracked Doll

At the bottom, a reward is offered: £100,000 for any information leading to the recovery of Marguerite Hansburg. Please contact the police or the Hansburg residence at... followed by a phone number.

They say this photo was taken just before she disappeared so how she is dressed in that photo is her clothes they can spot her in.

I can't breathe. The world tilts on its axis. "I... I can't believe this," I whisper.

Amara, who has been reading over my shoulder, lets out a breathy, horrified sound. "That woman looks exactly like you, Ophelia. Exactly. And she has your mother's name." She pauses, her eyes narrowing as a realization hits her. "Wait... doesn't your Papa have brown hair and brown eyes?"

I freeze. I think of my father—the man downstairs snoring in his stupor. "His hair has some silver strands now," I stammer, "but... but it is brown. Many people have brown hair and brown eyes, Amara! It's common! Maybe... maybe my grandparents just thought she was kidnapped because they were arrogant, when she actually just ran away to marry the man she loved."

Amara doesn't look convinced. Her gaze is hard, probing. "Then where is her grave, love? Did your Papa ever take you to visit her? Even once?"

I shake my head slowly, my eyes locked on the photo of the woman who should have been my mother. "No. Never. Even when I was a little girl... even when my sisters were still alive... he would always say no. He'd just get angry. He'd scream until we were too scared to ask again."

The silence that follows is suffocating. Amara looks at me with a mixture of pity and horror. She reaches out, her arms opening to pull me into a hug, to offer some shred of comfort in this nightmare. But as she moves, her gaze shifts. She looks past my shoulder, staring at something deep in the shadows of the attic.

Her eyes go wide. Her breath hitches.

"Ophelia?" she whispers, her voice trembling. "Do you... do you see that too?"

A cold chill, like a plunge into ice water, washes over me. I slowly turn around.

Standing there, amidst the dust and the rotting mannequins, are two small figures. Two girls. My sisters.

They are wearing their twelfth birthday dresses—white lace that should have been pure, but is now drenched in dark, crusty crimson. They are holding hands, their small fingers entwined. Blood smears their faces; it drips from their clothes, staining the floor beneath them.

Their pale, hollow eyes lock onto mine. Their lips part, and in a synchronized, ghostly wail that echoes through the rafters, they call my name.

"Ophelia..."

I let out a piercing, guttural scream, the sound tearing from my throat as I recoil in absolute terror.

Chapter 17

Amara’s grip is like a vice on my arm, her fingers digging into my skin as she practically yanks me backward, dragging me away from the blood-stained apparitions of my sisters. My heart is hammering against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird, and the scream is still echoing in the dusty air of the attic.

"Fuck! Ophelia, you’ve got ghosts! Actual fucking ghosts in your house!" Amara is rambling, her voice a mix of genuine terror and a strange, manic excitement. "This is mental, absolutely mental—"

We scramble out of the attic and hit the hallway, but we don't get far. We slam right into a wall of a man.

I gasp, stumbling back. It’s Papa. He looks groggy, his eyes bloodshot and heavy, clearly just waking up from one of his midday stupors. The smell of stale sleep and old tobacco clings to him.

Instinctively, I snap my arm back, clutching the yellowed newspaper tightly behind my back, pressing the brittle paper against my spine. My pulse is drumming in my ears.

"What the fuck is all this noise?" he growls, his voice gravelly and dangerous.

Amara doesn't miss a beat. She jumps in, her voice pitching higher, playing the part of the frightened guest. "Sorry! Sorry, Mr. Sorrell! We just... we saw a mouse! A massive one, right by the door, and it properly spooked us!"

Papa doesn't move. He stands there, squinting at us, his gaze boring into me. I can't look at him. I keep my eyes fixed on the floor, the worn carpet blurring as my mind screams. Kidnapped. Stalker. Brown hair, brown eyes. 100,000 pounds. The words from the article are looping in my head like a broken record, turning my world upside down.

Then, his eyes shift. He looks past us, seeing the attic door standing wide open, the darkness of the forbidden room yawning behind us.

An immediate, animalistic growl escapes his throat. Before I can even blink, his hand shoots out, gripping my upper arm with a strength that makes me wince. He jerks me toward him, his face twisting into a mask of pure rage.

"Did you go in there?" he sneers, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "Did you go through my things? Trying to dig up dirt about your mother?"

I tremble, my voice small. "I—"

"Didn't I warn you?" he roars, his grip tightening until I feel the bruise forming. "I told you never to go into that attic! I told you never to try and find anything about Marguerite that I don't tell you!"