Page 42 of The Favorite Girl

My lips trembled and my body grew cold as I walked to the wall.

“No… Oh no, no….” I stammered as I blinked repeatedly. Tiny, golden placards were drilled into the shelves that held them.

Rows and rows of wigs; all blonde, with different styles and lengths. Squinting, I ran my finger against the engraving.

Jackie Indigo (Brunette, virgin)

Gabby Mian (Brunette, dyed)

Kealey Remington (Blonde, dyed)

Elise Moretti (Brunette, dyed)

Silvia Sully (Brunette, virgin)

Jessica Miller (Red, virgin)

Kori Wimberly (Blonde, virgin)

Erin Harlow (Brunette, dyed)

Paige Cooper (Dark-brunette, virgin)

Cristina Navy (Red, dyed)

Caroline Sage (Blonde, dyed)

Amanda Calloway (Brunette, dyed)

Kelly Shah (Blonde, dyed)

Allyson Montgomery (Brunette, virgin)

Rows and rows of names and hair colors? My chest tightened as I looked at each wig that was now platinum blonde. Closing my eyes, I tried to count the rooms I cleaned. Five? Or was it nine? It was too hard to remember when the shock was cutting through every ounce of my body as I robotically cleaned around a human who was in a room with a shaved head and everything was a blinding white, including their meals.

“Demi, have you even started brushing them yet?” I spun around to find Bradley shaking his head at me.

“Bradley… those… the caged girls… This is their hair?” I didn’t know whether I was asking a question or saying my thoughts out loud just so I’d be able to believe them.

“They are Mrs. Ivory’s precious wigs. You need to brush them. She’s been extremely agitated since they couldn’t find someone to do this job in quite some time,” Bradley replied stoically.

“Where did these wigs come from? What are these names? Who?—”

“Demi, here. Boar brush only. Do it.” Bradley shoved a fancy-looking brush into my hands and physically turned me toward the wigs.

I looked at the bristles and trembled as I reached for one of the wigs and head-shaped mannequin stand.

It was Gabby’s. Who was she? Was she here? Was she trapped in one of those terrifying rooms? Those cages?

I began to brush the hair, cringing as the brush struggled to get through the knots. I couldn’t hold back the fear pounding through my chest as I thought about how these wigs came to be.

“Bradley, how…” I started.

“Don’t ask what you don’t want to know, Demi. Just don’t.” He left the room, and I swore, as soon as the door slid closed, I could hear the girls who once had this hair on top of their heads… scream.

The room felt colder, darker, and more sterile when I was in it alone. My racing thoughts grew loud and echoed amongst the cries of the women who existed under this roof and were being forced to live like puppy mill animals.

But I stood there and brushed each and every wig, hoping that doing so would fill the time because I could no longer breathe here. I realized now that the air in this house wasn’t pure or clean; it was plagued with death, just like a morgue.