Page 89 of Dolls & Daggers

That’s why I applied for a job at Metro Media, the city’s leading source of information on the notorious masked killer. M.M.’s top journalist, Dove Carroway, always had the inside scoop on the Doll. I assumed—ignorantly, I might add—that I could tag along and reap the benefits simply by existing.

I was entirely wrong.

Not only was I mistaken in thinking I could usurp a colleague’s hard-earned position, but I was grossly misguided in assuming that, as a man, I could cultivate a better relationship with the Doll than a woman could. That I could charm my way into her trust, persuading her to pass along information to me instead of to the woman who had rebuilt this firm through sheer determination and relentless hard work.

If you think this article reads like a love letter to my colleague, you’d be absolutely right.

Dove and I didn’t start off well. In fact, I’d wager she would have been justified in getting me fired more than once. But the longer we worked together, the more I began to understand exactly the kind of woman she is.

We bonded over our shared respect for the Baby Doll Killer—what she stands for, what she represents. And, with Dove’s permission, I’ll say this: we connected over a past we both know too well, a deeply rooted trauma that mirrors those the Doll seeks to avenge.

I came to understand why Dove made the Doll hersingular focus. She doesn’t just report on her—she understands her. She’s lived through it, survived it, and used her harrowing past to carve out a future. It’s why her readers feel so deeply when they consume her work. She pours every ounce of herself into it. And, in the midst of our working relationship, she gave me the strength to do the same—to face my own past and reclaim my life.

Dove Carroway is the strongest person I’ve ever met. It’s no wonder I fell for her—because anyone who knows her does. It’s inevitable.

My purpose for returning to New York is no longer confined to the Doll and my reckless need to meet her. Some might call my obsession with her a mistake, but that obsession led me to the greatest "mistake" of my life.

So, to the Doll—whoever you are—thank you.

Thank you for speaking for the children who cannot.

For seeking justice when no one else will.

For giving me the strength I never knew I had.

And for, however unintentionally, introducing me to the love of my life.

I watch nervously as Dove’seyes turn glossy, her baby blues skimming each line with careful scrutiny. I know the exact moment she finishes—she exhales a breath she’s been holding since halfway throughthe article and sinks back into her plush, pink chair.

She doesn’t speak right away, and the silence stretches until I can’t take it any longer. “Well? What do you think?”

She smiles. Dove’s smile is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, but this time, it holds something different—something life-changing.

“I love it,” her reply is soft.

Without looking at me, she reaches for her mouse and clicks publish. The simple motion tightens my chest before warmth surges through me, flooding every nerve. I can’t help myself—I spin her chair around and pull her into my arms.

“I love you,” I murmur.

“I love you too. And this?” She pulls back and nods to her computer screen. “This is incredible work. You did good, Songbird.”

The simple praise means more to me than she’ll ever know.

Dove whips a hand in front of my face and taps a nail to my nose. “But don’t think this means you’re gonna start writing about the Doll, because that’s never happening.”

Ah, there it is.

I chuckle, catching her pink-and-white marbledfingernail in my palm. “Don’t worry. I’ve decided I much prefer keeping the Doll all to myself.”

“For life?” she teases, leaning in until her watermelon-painted lips hover just above mine.

I curl our hands together, pressing my forehead to hers as my thumb strokes the bare spot on her ring finger—the one I intend to embellish soon. “For life.”