Chapter 3

"Wait—what?"

I couldn't think straight. "Am I remembering wrong, or is the file off?"

Silas leaned forward, his gaze locked onto mine:

"The details are right. But think about it—in a dump like Black Creek, who's going to pay good money for creepy old dolls? And somehow they sold out every time?"

"Because she worked herself to the bone!" I shot back. "She'd stake out that flea market in subzero temps just to scrape together a few bucks—"

"But the numbers don't add up!"

Silas cut me off. "Actually do the math, Sloane.

"She'd spend one weekend day out there, come back with rent money, buy you food, and still manage to sock away a few hundred every month behind your mom's back."

His eyes bored into mine: "How does a teenage girl selling junk in this godforsaken town pull in that kind of money?"

"Because…" I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

My mind flashed back to those frozen Sunday nights.

I'd be huddled on the curb outside the trailer park until it was pitch dark, waiting to see her trudge back, shivering, pulling a warm can of pork and beans from inside her coat with a smile.

To a starving eleven-year-old, as long as my sister brought home something hot, who gave a damn where the money came from?

Before I could recover, Silas dropped the bomb:

"Frank actually tried it himself...

"Took a few really nice secondhand dolls, set up at that market two Sundays in a row. Couldn't even give them away. People thought they were creepy and crossed the street.

"So Elise's 'booming business' was complete bullshit."

"No. No way..." I was shaking, my stomach twisting.

If Silas was right, the one clean thing from my childhood was a lie?

Silas caught the look on my face and pushed harder:

"Sloane, think carefully—when did Elise start with these dolls?"

"A year before it happened... fall 2010."

I forced myself to focus. "She'd come home from school, yank the curtain shut, and hole up working on them. Mom didn't give a shit, just kept squeezing her for booze money."

"Any idea why Elise suddenly needed cash so bad?"

"To get us out." My throat tightened. "She swore once she saved enough, she'd never let us rot in that hellhole."

"Wanting out makes sense." Silas zeroed in. "But how'd she come up with 'fixing dolls at the flea market'?"

"No idea. She came back from town one afternoon and just brought it up.

"Mom wouldn't give her a dime for paint at first. Elise only got her to cave by promising to pay back double—"

"Christ..."

Silas slumped back, cursing under his breath. "Frank was right all along."

"What?"

Silas looked up, every word deliberate:

"What if I told you another girl who had her legs sawed off started claiming the same thing in October 2010? That she was 'fixing dolls for side money'?"

"What?!" I gripped the armrests, knuckles white. My vision blurred.

"What happened in Black Creek in October 2010?" Silas rapped his knuckles twice on the table.

"Why would two girls who'd never met suddenly use the exact same story at the exact same time?

"What did they run into? Or who?

"Could whoever was slipping them cash be the same psycho with the saw?"

"If you had this lead, why didn't you follow it?!" I shot to my feet, eyes burning. "What was she really getting for those dolls every weekend?!"

Silas shook his head wearily:

"Couldn't trace it. Money went through dark web ghost accounts, cleaned completely. She met someone alone. No witnesses."

He paused, voice hoarse:

"The case circled right back to the first wall—

"Every local male's DNA—not one match. The crack we pried open slammed shut."

"Then keep digging!"

I lost it completely, slamming both hands on the table: "You got this far—dig up the whole damn town if you have to!

"Did you drive all this way just to feed me excuses?!"

I was breathing hard, glaring:

"And what's the third wall?!"

The room went silent.

Silas didn't argue. He stood, grabbed his coat and tossed it at me:

"Words won't cut it for the third one. Put your coat on, Sloane."

I stood frozen. "Where are you taking me?"