Page 56 of Cracked Doll

"Let go!" I cry out, twisting in his grasp. "You're hurting me! Let go!"

He doesn't let go. Instead, he pulls me closer, his eyes flashing with a hatred that feels ancient. "I cannot stand it," he spits, "that even after breaking you to this point, you are still as disobedient as her."

I freeze. The air in the hallway feels suddenly frigid.

"And that," he snarls, "is exactly why she is no longer alive."

Her? Who the fuck is her? Usually, he only speaks of this her in those cryptic, bitter tones when he's wasted on gin, but this morning he is sober. He is lucid. And he's talking about someone as if she deserved to die for the crime of being disobedient.

Panic surges through me. I try to wrench my hand away, to flee from the suffocating pressure of his presence, but he reacts with a sudden, violent motion. He raises his hand high, his palm open, the gesture unmistakable. He’s going to strike me.

I flinch, closing my eyes and bracing for the blow.

PSSSSSSSSST!

A sharp, hissing sound cuts through the air, followed by a guttural, agonized scream.

I snap my eyes open. Papa is clutching his face, his hands clawing at his eyes, stumbling backward and howling in pain. Amara is standing there, a small canister of pepper spray held firmly in her hand, her expression fierce.

"Get the fuck away from her!" she yells.

She doesn't wait for him to recover. She grabs my hand, her grip firm and protective, and hauls me down the hallway. We don't look back; we just run. We burst through the front door and sprint down the street, the cold morning air biting at my lungs.

Once we're a safe distance away, I look at her, breathless and shaking. "You... you carry pepper spray?"

Amara glances at me, her chest heaving. "Ophelia, have you seen the creeps in this town? I don't go anywhere without a way to blind a cunt if they get too close."

We don't stop until we reach her home. I've never been inside before, but as we pull up, I see it's a stark contrast to the gloom of my father's house. It's a small, eclectic cottage tucked away behind a hedge of overgrown roses, the exterior painted a daring shade of deep teal with bright yellow window frames. It looks lived-in, chaotic, and warm.

She practically shoves me inside and leads me straight up to her bedroom, slamming the door shut and locking it with a decisive click.

Amara leans against the door, catching her breath, her face pale but determined. She looks at me—really looks at me—and then her gaze drops to the crumpled newspaper still clutched in my hand.

"Right," she says, her voice steadying. "We need to find out what actually happened to your mum. Because if your Papa is the one who 'saved' her from a stalker, but he looks exactly like the suspect..." She shudders. "We need to know if Thomas Sorrell was actually the love of her life, or if he was the fucking stalker who stole her.”

I stare at the yellowed newsprint, my fingers trembling so hard the paper rattles. "There has to be another explanation," I whisper, my voice sounding thin and fragile in the quiet of Amara’s room. "There just has to be. Maybe... maybe my grandparents were just desperate. Maybe they made up the kidnapping story to lure my mum back, or to get Papa arrested so they couldn't be together. It doesn't have to be... that."

Amara opens her mouth to protest, her brow furrowed, but I cut her off, the panic rising in my chest.

"And I have to process the fact that we just saw my sisters' ghosts, Amara! Do you get that? That wasn't some 'suspicion' or a trick of the light. We saw them. We actually fucking saw them."

Amara sighs, her expression softening as she leans back against the door. "I told you, love. I told you your house looks haunted. Even your toy shop feels like it's breathing sometimes. Maybe they've just been trapped in that attic all this time, never finding any peace. Maybe they're waiting for you to help them."

I blink, a chill running down my spine. "Help take them to peace? How?"

"I don't know," Amara says, her voice suddenly devoid of its usual playfulness. She looks at me with a terrifyingly blank intensity. "Either that, or we trap them in porcelain dolls. Then they can stay with you forever. Little ceramic versions of your sisters, right on your bedside table."

I stare at her, waiting for the punchline, the sarcastic smirk, the "just kidding." But it never comes. She isn't joking. Amara is dead serious, and for a second, she seems just as twisted as the world I've been forced into.

"Amara! Darling!"

The voice of Mrs. Aldridge drifts up from downstairs, calling for her daughter. Amara jumps, the spell breaking.

"Stay right here," she commands, pointing a finger at me. "Don't move. I'll be right back."

I nod dumbly, watching her slip out of the room and close the door behind her. For the first time, I actually look around. The room is a chaotic blend of vintage gothic lace, scattered sketchbooks, and odd trinkets—a sanctuary of black and gold. I clutch the newspaper to my chest, my mind racing through the images of my father's rage and the bloodied faces of my sisters.

"Finally."