The Dollmaker(The Forgotten Files #2)(45)

“She didn’t like the idea at all,” she said. “Diane tried to talk her into it, but she wore a red dress. She thought we looked ridiculous. She kept making cracks about how she was trying to look like a grown-up and not a kid.”

He shook his head. “Jesus,” he said, so quietly she almost didn’t hear. “Roger might have been right all these years.”

Tears tightened her throat. It pained her to see him twisted in knots. “Dakota, you’re suggesting the same person is responsible for two deaths separated by a dozen years.”

“Killers evolve, Tessa. They learn and they practice, and even though they go dark for years, they don’t stop thinking about the killing.”

She wasn’t buying his theory. “Facial tattooing is a major evolution.”

“The killer could have taken Kara on impulse. She might have been his first kill. Fast-forward a dozen years, and this same killer is now thinking and planning his next kill. He now isn’t satisfied with a doll costume but wants to completely change her. Whoever killed Diane put a lot of thought into it.”

“Why her? It can’t be as simple as a Halloween party that happened twelve years ago.”

“I don’t know. Not yet, anyway. Maybe he targeted her because he knew her from college. Or because she was Kara’s friend. I don’t know the connection yet, but it’s there. It’s one of the first questions I’ll be asking Madison.”

“God, I can’t believe this. I think you’re getting ahead of yourself.”

He rubbed the back of his head with a grimace. “Believe it. There’s one thing I know. Coincidences are rare things.”

She recognized the look in his eyes. He was a dog with a bone. And he wouldn’t rest until he had answers. How many times had they argued over his work, his distance, or his inability to let go? A year ago, she’d have tried to talk him out of this. Now she took solace in the fact that they were working together. “I hope you’re wrong, but I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

He smacked the paperweight on her desk, but when he looked into her worried eyes, he inhaled. “I know you think I’m going to obsess about this case like I have the others I’ve worked. And you know what? I am.” He shoved out a ragged sigh. “I know I wasn’t easy to live with. I know I get lost in my work. But it’s going to take someone as driven as me to catch Kara and Diane’s killer.”

She blinked back tears. “I want to help, but I don’t know what to do.”

“All I need from you are any pictures taken when you four girls were together. I want you to make lists of all the people you girls knew. Please think back. Was there anyone lurking around, watching you?”

“Okay. I’ll do it.”

“Call me when you have information. This killer has murdered one woman you know, maybe two. Until I know what his agenda is, keep your eyes open and be careful.”

“Sure.”




The Dollmaker laid Harmony carefully on the chair he’d modified especially for his work. Though she could sit up, there were armrests with straps as well as lower straps for her legs. She would be sedated for the duration of her transformation, but he would bind her just as he did Destiny because he couldn’t run the risk of her moving while he was doing some of his most delicate work.

He straightened her head in the headrest and took a moment to trace his finger across the fine bone structure of her face. High cheekbones. Pale skin. Arched eyebrows. She was pretty now and soon would be perfect.

Turning to his computer, he switched on soothing music and hummed as he strapped her arms to the chair and then her legs. He plugged in the hot wax machine, and as the hard material melted, he moved to his workbench and reached for a comb and a pair of sharp scissors.

Slowly he ran his hand through her hair. Thick. Lovely. But wrong. He gathered it at the top of her head, and with his shears, cut through the thickness until the long ponytail was free. Her hair fell around her face. Setting the ponytail aside, he cut away at the remaining locks until they weren’t more than a half inch from her scalp.

Next came hot wax. With a flat edge, he picked up a dollop of wax and smeared it over her scalp. Quickly he laid a strip of cloth on the wax and pressed it into her hair and skin. Then with a quick practiced jerk, he pulled back the cloth, ripping the hair from her scalp. She moaned, still drugged but unable to completely escape pain.

“Shh,” he said gently. “You have to suffer a little to be beautiful.”




Sharp called Stanford Madison but landed in voice mail. Instead of leaving him a message, he decided to pay him a visit in person. He drove to the man’s Hanover Avenue address, located a few blocks from the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts.

Many of the older homes built in the early twentieth century had been renovated and now went for good money. Wrought iron framed the windows, and porches made each home as distinctive as the massive old trees that lined the streets.

Stanford Madison’s corner-lot art studio and second-floor apartment was located in an old converted grocery. Its facade included a red door paired with a large plate-glass window. The window displayed the portrait of a woman with dark hair, rich mocha skin, and green eyes.

Sharp got out of his vehicle and walked up to the building. He peered through the large front window.

Inside, the structure’s historical details had been gutted to create a long simple space with whitewashed walls and tiled ceiling. Hanging on the walls was a collection of portraits of women. Each exhibited the same extreme detail.