Page 8 of Dolls of Ruin (Bound by Stitches)
Eight
The bar was buzzing, warm light pooling across polished wood tables as glasses clinked and laughter bubbled from nearby booths. The faint scent of citrus and spice lingered in the air, cutting through the heavier notes of beer and whiskey. It was the kind of place Riley always chose—comfortable but trendy enough to keep out the riffraff.
I spotted her in a corner booth, her gin and tonic already half-empty. She waved me over, her ponytail bouncing as she gestured impatiently.
“You’re late,” she said, raising her glass like a queen chastising her subject.
I dropped into the booth with a sigh, my jacket sticking briefly to the leather seat before I peeled it off. “I had a day.”
Riley quirked an eyebrow, swirling the ice in her drink. “Define ‘a day.’”
“There was this guy,” I started, leaning forward. “He came into the shop yesterday. Bought one of the dolls. But the way he looked at it, Riley…” I shook my head, the memory sending a chill down my spine. “It was like he thought it was alive. And then he stood outside the shop, staring through the window like some kind of psycho.”
Her lips twitched like she was holding back a laugh. “Creepy. What happened next?”
I hesitated with a mixture of embarrassment and frustration, as I traced a circle in the condensation forming on the table. “The doll showed back up today. In a package.”
Riley’s glass froze mid-air. “What?”
“There was no sender information, no note, nothing. Just my address on the box,” I said, leaning back as if distance could make the whole thing sound less ridiculous.
Riley snorted, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Bitch. Dolls don’t just jump into boxes and ship themselves. The dude sounded weird. Check it for cum stains and forget about it.”
“Oh my God,” I groaned, burying my face in my hands. “Why are you like this?”
She shrugged, utterly unbothered. “Because I’m right. Weird guy. Creepy doll. Case closed.”
“It’s not just that,” I said, dropping my hands to the table. The sticky surface made me grimace, but I didn’t bother wiping my palms on my jeans. “The camera footage from last night is useless—static and flickers—and the rest of the dolls…” I trailed off, shaking my head. “They feel different. Heavier, almost. Like they’re pissed at me for separating them because the ones that looked like they belonged to the same set seemed angry, but the rest couldn’t care.”
Riley leaned back, the dim light casting shadows across her sharp features. “Pissed? Claire, you’re talking about porcelain and fabric. You can’t seriously believe?—”
“I don’t believe anything,” I cut in, my voice sharper than I intended. “It’s just… a feeling.”
Riley rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. “You’re acting like they’re puppies. Claire, they’re creepy little tchotchkes that you’re letting take over your life… No! Don’t give me that look—I heard that tone in your voice, the all-sappy one when you find a new thing to fix. Sell them to people who care about that stuff. Doll collectors or whatever. Just… get them out of your shop before you end up starring in your own horror movie as the villain who snapped and killed someone in a paranoid fit.”
I frowned, her words landing heavier than I wanted to admit. The clink of glasses and bursts of laughter from a nearby table seemed suddenly too loud, too sharp.
I thought about Wealth. The smudge on his foot. The way the others had felt sharper this morning, their painted faces somehow cutting into me like accusations.
“Maybe you’re right,” I said finally, though the words tasted bitter. “But if I sell them, I’m doing it carefully. No random buyers. I’ll keep them together as much as I can.”
“Fine, great, whatever,” Riley said, grinning as she flagged the waiter for another drink. “There’s the Claire I know. Let’s toast to getting your life back.”
She raised her glass, and I tapped mine against it half-heartedly, the ice clinking like an offbeat metronome.
The streets were quiet as I made my way back to the shop, the cold biting at my exposed fingers. The faint scent of someone’s fireplace lingered on the wind, mixing with the smell of damp asphalt.
The plan was beginning to take shape in my mind. I’d clean each doll carefully, photograph them, and write up detailed listings. If I spread the word in the right places, I could make sure they ended up with people who would appreciate them—and maybe feel less like I was abandoning them.
But the thought of letting them go still twisted something in my chest.
When I reached the shop, I hesitated outside, staring through the glass at the workbench. The dolls sat perfectly still, their painted faces catching the glow of the streetlights.
A flicker of movement drew my attention to the far corner of the shop. I froze, my breath hitching as I squinted through the glass. But nothing moved.
I pressed my palm against the cold doorframe, forcing myself to breathe. “This is the right thing,” I whispered, more to myself than anyone—or anything—else.
The air inside was colder than the street.