Page 27 of The Hanging Dolls (Zoe Storm #1)

TWENTY-SIX

Tara Bennett had an overbite. She had two dimples digging into her skin. Her hair was dark and curly. She wore thick glasses, which she hated. She was only eight years old. She had been looking forward to the new Paw Patrol movie to come out.

Zoe breathed through the weight pressing on her chest. She stared at the photo of Tara, wondering what she would have looked like had she been allowed to grow old.

In the distance, she saw an elderly couple walking along the beach—their backs hunched and gait agonizingly slow.

They probably hated being old, tired of living in a body that was a shell of what it used to be.

But Zoe knew that growing old was a blessing.

She had seen too many bodies deformed in unimaginable ways and lives taken for the most ridiculous reasons.

She set the picture aside and stared into the dark, treacherous waters of the Pacific Ocean. It was like a big pool of ink. The water looked thick and velvety from here. The sky was blanketed by clouds. A breeze chilled her scalp and she took deep breaths to clear her mind.

A group of kids were playing at the beach. Three boys. Two of them were older and bigger than the third one. She watched them idly, dark thoughts crossing her mind—how were they destined to die?

And then she noticed the two big boys shove the younger one, who stumbled backward, crying. The older ones proceeded to harass him, snatch his backpack that he was desperately trying to hold on to, ruffling his hair and roughing him up.

Anger spiked in Zoe. She hopped off the rocks she had perched herself on and barreled toward them, her blood pounding hard in her veins. “Hey!”

The three of them looked at her. But all she saw was red. Something that had to be fixed, something that was wrong .

“Get away from him!” she screeched, standing like a wall between him and the two boys.

The older boys staggered back but not before one of them retorted, “Why don’t you mind your own business, bitch?”

She fisted her hands and revealed her badge. “Say that again and I’ll teach you a lesson.”

The older boy’s eyes widened. Behind Zoe, the little one started crying.

He got up and rushed to the other older one, hugging him.

He was probably his kid brother. The three of them looked at Zoe with frantic, panicked eyes.

That’s when Zoe realized how young they were. The older ones were not even sixteen.

Has she just threatened children?

She opened her mouth to apologize, but the boys suddenly hightailed it from there, disappearing into the night.

Zoe plopped down, her knees digging into the sand. This wasn’t her, at least not like this. She was usually careful, studying her target and not acting impulsively. But now she was losing it.

“Hello, Mr. Hunter. It’s good to see you back.” Melissa, a bony woman who wore only white dresses, smiled at him.

Travis didn’t return the smile. He crossed his arms and pouted.

He didn’t want to come back here again to his old therapist. The office with its beige colors, posters containing quotes about mental health, and a collection of succulents and snake plants to add a splash of serenity and color irked him.

It was ridiculous, he thought. It made him feel weak, like he was on display.

“You know,” Melissa said, capping a pen in her hands, “it’s not a weakness to be here, Travis. I have many patients who are doctors, nurses, firefighters, cops… your job comes with baggage that you shouldn’t have to process alone.”

“Back in the day, people got over world wars without therapy,” he grumbled. “And yet here I am.”

“People also got by without modern medicine and yet we use them. Now tell me, why are you here?”

“I’m sure you’re reading about what’s happening in this town.” He pulled at a thread on the orange couch.

“Yes.” She pressed her lips in a thin line. “I can’t imagine how traumatizing it must be for you. It must be reminding you of your late sisters. Are you hallucinating again?”

Travis looked up, his breath catching in his throat. They were standing behind Melissa like wraiths with empty eyes. When he blinked, they disappeared. “No. That time is behind me.”

“Are you still taking your medication?”

“I haven’t taken it in years. Don’t need it. I’m just on medication for my high blood pressure.”

“This case might open wounds that have healed. You might relapse.”

If Melissa knew that Travis was seeing his dead sisters standing behind her, she would prescribe him medication or worse, declare him unfit for duty.

He couldn’t afford to sit at home. And nothing felt more imperative than untangling the mystery of his son.

Despite the chaos that surrounded him at work, all the world’s problems dwarfed in front of his child. That was the curse of being a parent.

“That’s not the only reason I’m here.”

“Then what is it?”

“My son, Ryan.” His voice trembled. “I worry about him.”

“I remember you told me you always felt there was a distance between you two. Has something changed?”

He nodded. “He’s involved in something. He stays out all night and when he’s home he locks himself away in his bedroom.

He doesn’t talk to me. I want to respect his privacy so I’ve been holding back on going through his stuff.

But I called his school yesterday and they said he’s been ditching classes. ”

Melissa nodded, sympathetically. “He’s seventeen years old, Travis. Teenage years can be very turbulent. Especially for someone who lost his mother at a young age. Have patience.”

“I don’t have patience, Doc.” His voice was laced with desperation. “If I ignore him… what if he… what if he’s on some wrong path?”

Melissa stared at him, puzzled. “Do you suspect something concrete?”

What if his darkness had spilled over into his child?

“No,” he lied.

“It’s possible that you’re deflecting.”

“Deflecting?”

“That the deaths of Lily and Tara are weighing so heavily on you that subconsciously your mind finds it easy to focus on Ryan.”

Travis turned her words around carefully. The pressure in his chest returned with full force. With trembling hands, he picked up a glass of water and guzzled it.

Melissa watched him warily. “Are you okay?”

“I just can’t talk about it. Not today.”

“Okay… not today.”

Scott knew he shouldn’t drink. He had worked too hard to give it up. But why were bad things so easy to give in to? Was he using the deaths of Lily and Tara as an excuse? Maybe if he was better, they would still be alive. The cab glided haphazardly through the winding, dirt roads of Harborwood.

There was an itch stuck in his throat. It scratched him every time he took a breath. Only one thing could make it better—that rich, smoky liquid with notes of oak and his damnation. He loosened his tie and clenched and unclenched his fists, suddenly clammy.

“You all right?” the cab driver asked, watching him squirm in the rearview mirror.

“Yeah,” he replied curtly, his hands finding a flask in the inside pocket of his coat. He weighed the empty leathery flask in the palm of his hand. It was his father’s flask—the only thing Scott had inherited from him other than a weakness for alcohol. He had kept it all this time.

He flicked it open and took a whiff. The smell alone was usually enough to help his nerves. But tonight his stomach was full of those nerves.

The smell wasn’t enough. He needed to lose himself.

When the cab reached his destination, he tossed some bills at the driver, telling him to keep the change, and climbed out of the car. He waited for his numbing thoughts to revive with force and tell him to go back home.

But he couldn’t. Not tonight. Because nothing mattered. Because if there was one thing that could stop him from drinking again, it was her.

He swayed slightly, the memory of Tara coursing through his veins, the biting emptiness amplifying inside him.

He paused at her door, his hand hovering over the worn wood, hesitating.

But the memory of Lily’s and Tara’s pale faces, and the loneliness that seemed to stretch endlessly before him drove him forward.

Before he could change his mind, Scott knocked on the door, the sound sharp and urgent in the stillness.

A moment later he heard the soft shuffling of footsteps on the other side. The door creaked open, and Carly stood there, her expression shifting from surprise to concern as she took in the sight of him—disheveled, eyes glassy, the scent of whiskey hanging heavy in the air.

“Scott?” she said softly, clearly concerned. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer right away, his gaze fixed on her. He couldn’t find the words, couldn’t articulate the mess inside him. All he knew was that he needed her—needed something to make the pain stop, even if just for a moment.

Before he knew what he was doing, he stepped forward, closing the space between them. His hands reached out, cupping her face as he leaned in, his lips brushing against hers. The kiss was desperate, almost frantic.

Carly tensed, her hands coming up to his chest to push him away, her breath hitching in surprise. “Scott, wait—” she began, her voice muffled against his lips.

But he didn’t stop, couldn’t stop. He should. What the hell was he doing? His restraint had been stripped away, leaving only the raw need and the pain he’d been drowning in for far too long. He deepened the kiss, his fingers threading through her hair as he pressed her against the doorframe.

Carly sighed. Her body molded into his and she returned the kiss. He pushed her to the bedroom that he used to frequent too often and began unbuttoning her blouse.

“What happened?” Carly, letting him undress her.

He didn’t want to talk. He just wanted to forget. “She’s dead. They’re all dead.”