14. Dove
“This is a bad idea,” Bunny’s concern bleeds through the speakerphone.
“Well, he won’t answer my calls or texts. What else am I supposed to do? He won’t talk to me. Maybe he’ll talk to her ,” I grunt, struggling to zip up my catsuit. “I wish you were here to do this for me. You know I had nothing to do with Hunter kissing me. Why am I the one being punished?”
“Hunter can kiss whoever he wants. I don’t care,” she states flippantly. “And you’re not being punished. I told you, I have plans tonight.”
“You do care.” I halt my mission, her last sentence finally resonating. Limbs contorted, I barely manage to pinch the zipper between my fingers. “What plans? You didn’t tell me about any plans. Why wasn’t I invited to the plans? ”
“It’s for work,” she grumbles.
Something else filters through the speakers, but I can’t make it out. “What was that?”
“Hunter specifically requested me for a job,” she bites out.
I resume wrestling myself into this godforsaken clingwrap. “See? I don’t appreciate him telling me to get my shit together when you two are way worse. I seriously don’t understand why you don’t just give in already.”
“I have my reasons,” she murmurs. “Anyway. Maybe Wren just needs space. Have you thought about that? You two went from hating each other to making out, and then he told you he doesn’t like kissing with tongue, and you all but made fun of him.”
Standing straight, I stomp my platform boot into the thick rug covering the hardwood. “I did not make fun of him! I thought he was making me work for it! You know how much I like a challenge.” I try to keep my tone light, full of my usual energy, but my throat still aches, reducing my outburst to a whispery tantrum.
“All I’m saying is you should wait until Monday to see him at work.” A page flips, followed by the crunch of Lucky Charms and the clink of a spoon against a bowl. “This isn’t something to play around with, Dove. If he finds out who you really are, it’s gonna get messy. You know it will.”
I secure my sleek black bob and check my reflection in the vanity mirror.
Most of my wigs are long and heavy, but tonight isn’t about looking like her. It’s about talking to Wren. Besides, I don’t wear the catsuit to any of my killings. This wig won’t draw as much suspicion, making it perfect for slipping through the streets unnoticed.
“I can’t wait, Buns.” I slip a few pairs of blackout contacts into the pocket of my ankle-length leather trench and strap my dagger sheath around my thigh.
“Damn, you got it bad. Jesus, maybe you should have married my husband instead. A man finally chokes you, and you want to put a ring on it,” she jokes.
Like me, Bunny often uses humor to cope with her past.
“No one said anything about a ring,” I reply flatly. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see his eyes. I think it hurt him more to see what he did than it hurt me.”
“I mean, I saw your throat. He temporarily tattooed his fingerprints on you.” I study the purple bruises in the mirror as she continues, “He’s probably ashamed, embarrassed, and worried the cops will show up at his door any second now. And why did you let him get away with it? You could have gotten out of his grip.”
I think back to two nights ago—to the glaze in Wren’s eyes, the way he retreated into himself to deal with what I kept pushing him toward. I know that look well. And the words he whispered to the Doll still haunt me.
I’m already dead inside.
“Like I said,” I murmur. “You didn’t see his eyes.”
No garlic lingers in the air when I enter Wren’s home. No errant clicking of fingers on a keyboard or the delicate scrape of utensils against a plate. Just my songbird, wrapped in the cold and dark, staring blankly at the TV from his place on the couch.
His eyes slide to me as I make my presence known. The dead, empty caverns burst to life, shining with the light of a thousand suns. “You came back.”
“I didn’t like how we left things last time.” My modulator settings are unchanged, but the voice that escapes me sounds slightly off . Gently and as quietly as possible, I clear my throat as he shifts from his side to his feet.
Good god, those sweatpants should be illegal.
“I’m sorry about that.” He sheepishly rakes a hand through his hair, the silken strands feathering back, the front falling just enough to frame his forehead. “I’m glad you’re here, though.”
He flashes that damn smile and steps forward. But when I whip out my dagger and point it at him, he stops abruptly, hands raised.
He won’t answer my calls or texts, making me look certifiably insane for how many times I’ve tried to reach him. But he’s happy the Doll is here?
Can you be jealous of your alter ego?
“Why are you glad?” I sidestep. He mirrors my movement but keeps his distance.
Wren shoves his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie and fixes me with a look that is equal parts excitement and amusement. We step in tandem again, circling until my back is nearly to his couch. I creep around the edge of the coffee table and perch on the armrest farthest from him, keeping my weapon up in case he tries to rush me.
“Because I have questions.” He’s calm and cool and casual now. Entering his kitchen, he asks over his shoulder, “Would you like a drink?”
I shoot him a deadpan stare before remembering he can’t see shit behind my mask. Sardonically, I point to the lips of my mask and ask, “Do you have a straw?”
“Didn’t think about that.” Wren laughs. He abandons any pretense of being a good host for his uninvited guest and pulls a kitchen chair halfway into the living room, flipping it around to sit backward.
“So, what are your questions?” I prop my forearm over my knee, letting the dagger dangle from my fingers, twirling it idly. Annoyance seeps from my pores at how friendly he’s acting.
Do not lose your cool, Dove. You’re a serial killer, for fuck’s sake. That takes time and patience—both of which you need to exercise right now.
“How do you do it?” He crosses his arms over the back of the chair and leans forward, curiosity dripping from his lips, interest tucked into every chiseled curve of his facial structure.
“Do what?”
“ Kill . I want—” Wren stops, his expression shifting. It almost seems like he’s trying to rein in a sudden bout of anger. His fists clench, one leg beginning to bounce. “I need to learn.” I can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up, though the motion makes me wince—a painful reminder that the man across from me nearly crushed my throat two nights ago. “Who do you need to kill, So—” I cut myself off sharply, disguising the slip with a cough.
Fuck. I was just about to call him Songbird.
“Do you know Dove Carroway?” He squints, as if he can actually see behind my mask, searching for any hint of a lie. There’s no evidence of him catching my slip-up. The question comes too quickly, catching me mid-fake cough—which, again , hurts like fucking hell.
If he’d had a straw and I’d taken the drink, I’m sure I would have choked on it. Pun intended. It takes every ounce of self-restraint not to react. Why would he be asking about Dove… err… me?
“No? I do love what she writes about me, though.” My voice is light, flippant. “Why do you ask? Is she who you want to kill?” He says he needs to learn, and now he’s asking if I know myself? Surely he’s not stupid enough to try and kill little ol’ me .
All over a bit of tongue action?
He doesn’t answer my question. “No one else has the inside scoop on you like she does. And the first night you came here, you said a little birdie told you about my obsession.”
“It’s a saying. I wasn’t being factual.” I stand and stretch, letting out a fake yawn as though he’s boring me. “I wouldn’t mind meeting her, though. She does seem to get me.”
Wren stands as well, approaching with heavy footsteps. “Dove writes about you for a reason,” he stresses, making emphatic motions with his hands, as if they’ll clue me in on whatever he’s thinking.
Obviously, I know the reason for doing what I do. The fact that he’s put it together so quickly is impressive and… adorable ?
“I want to murder that reason.” His words land like a hammer.
I nearly swoon.
Wren looks dead serious—a man on a mission.
My songbird doesn’t want to kill me. He wants to kill for me .
Sadly, a quick internet search will tell him the man he wishes dead is already long gone.
Freddy Patterson was my first kill when I was twenty. After he was found not guilty and people in town started making threats, saying I’d lied for two years about what he’d done—what he’d made me do.
He’d been reinstated. Apologized to profusely. There had even been talk of a slander lawsuit, but my mother offered him hush money because she never believed me either.
Daddy issues.
Everyone said I just had daddy issues, and maybe I did—do.
But Freddy Patterson created the Baby Doll Killer. He liked dressing me up, buying me pretty things an adult woman would wear, and making me act younger than I was. He kept a room in his house just for me, filled with lace and frills and dolls—so many dolls that sometimes, at night, they scared me.
They would watch all the horrible things being done to me. Silent voyeurs to a nightmare where I was the beautiful, bright star—even when I no longer wanted to be.
Yet somehow, the dolls and the frills and the pretty pink persona stuck. A mask I’ll never shed because they became a piece of me—a vital part of who Dove Carroway is. A reminder of why I do what I do and who I do it for.
“You’re not a killer, Wrenley Campbell. You should leave that up to the professionals.” Tears prick my eyes, making the blackout contacts slide and itch. I look away, focusing on the hall—my only means of escape—and the fact that he’s standing in my way. All it would take is one contact slipping out, and he’d see my true identity staring him in the face.
Sniffing, I tuck my hair behind my ear. When I look back at him, he’s frozen, a frown stretching across his painstakingly beautiful face. The dim lighting from the kitchen and TV casts shifting shadows over the living room, but he isn’t looking at my mask.
He’s staring at my neck.
Why would he be…
Oh, fuck!
Wrenley
It couldn’t be.
“I need to get going. Consider your exclusive interview over.” The Doll shakes her head, her hair falling back over her ear.
Call me crazy, but I could have sworn there was a bruise on her neck when she tucked her hair back—exactly where I grabbed Dove two nights ago.
“Wait!” I reach out but jerk back in alarm as she whips her dagger toward me, edging around before spinning and darting down the hall.
“Don’t follow me!” she snaps.
But I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I’m frozen in place, struggling to reconcile what I just saw. When she spun, her hair flew off her neck again, revealing the bruising once more. It wasn’t a trick of the light.
Was it?
No. There’s no way. She’s taller than Dove. Her body felt…
Memories of that night crash to the forefront of my mind. The Doll and Dove have the same curves. The same dips and crevices in their thighs and waists, the same swell of their breasts pressing against my chest.
At least five minutes pass before I snap into action, grabbing my cell and dialing Hunter’s number.
“Oh, are you speaking to me now?” he drawls, picking up after the second ring.
Annoyance floods my bloodstream. “No, and I’m going to rearrange your face the next time I see you. You can’t hide upstate at your parents’ forever. But that’s not why I’m calling.”
“Is everything okay?” he asks, only marginally more concerned than two seconds ago.
“Uh… yeah.” I can’t tell him about what happened with Dove. It’s got to be some sort of felony, and I don’t need him put in the awkward position of asking if she wants to file a report. But I also don’t want to share my suspicions about her just yet. “Can you email me the videos of the Doll?”
“Uh, no? You know that, Wren. What’s going on?”
I hear shuffling and a voice in the background that sounds strangely like Bunny yelling about why she has to be "there."
Where is there? Last I knew, he wasn’t in the city.
Shaking my head, I decide to ask about whatever is going on between him and his rabbit later. “Your boss knows I’ve seen some of them. Can’t you send me those? I got the chance to publish, and I want to make sure I get the details right.”
I hate lying to him, but honestly, I’m still too pissed to see him in person and not rearrange his perfect nose. Besides… it’s not like it’s the first time I’ve kept something from him.
Snapping open my laptop, I pull up a blank document and tap over the keys in unintentional strokes. As my fingers create a new language, Hunter sighs. “ They were leaked. Why can’t you just watch them online?”
“Because the full versions weren’t leaked. I won’t tell anyone I have them, and I won’t reference you in the article.” I pause when I hear who is unmistakably Bunny, close enough now to make out her words.
“I have a date to get to, so if you can wrap up your…mrffgh!”
“Sending them over now. Gotta go, bye.” The line goes dead.
“What the fuck?” I mutter, pulling my phone away from my ear to see my home screen staring back at me.
Why is he lying about where he is?
There isn’t much time to ponder because less than a minute later, an email comes through containing exactly what I need. I spend hours watching and rewatching, looking for any sort of clue that wasn’t caught before.
But there’s nothing. The Doll is meticulous. The videos have been skewed in a way that would take a tech team weeks to unravel just to get some scope on her height.
Hunter calls back just as I’m rewatching the last video. “I had to come back for work. Mom and Dad say hi, by the way.”
“Uh-huh. Did you release your rabbit into the wild for her date?” I take a pull from my beer and sit back, turning down the volume on the TV, where I’ve cast the videos from my laptop.
“Fuck her date,” Hunter scoffs. “The dude was five-nine with a pedo-stache.”
“And you know this because ?” On the screen, the Doll saws through her victim’s privates. My balls ache just watching it.
“Because I walked her to the bar where they were meeting. She’s just trying to get back at me for kissing Dove.”
“Hmm. Maybe she and I should team up. Swap a little spit in front of you two and see how you like it,” I muse, getting up to grab a new bottle. The second the words leave my mouth, however, guilt punches me in the gut.
I’ve been ignoring Dove since I ran away like a coward the other night. She deserves better. She deserves more than a ring of bruises around her dainty neck and the pain I caused in her big blue eyes. No matter how panicked I was.
Even if she’s the Doll. Especially if she’s the Doll.
And fuck, if she is… was she right in front of me the whole time?
“Touch a hair on Bunny’s head, and I’ll charge you with sexual assault,” Hunter grumbles. I know he won’t.
“It’s cute you keep threatening that, yet you had the nerve to touch my…” My what? Dove isn’t my anything. I ruined any chance of that.
Didn’t I?
“Oh? Is she yours now?” Hunter sounds amused.
Movement on the screen pulls my attention back to the TV. The victim thrashes against his bindings, knocking the chair into the table holding the Doll’s instruments. She backhands him with the pommel of her dagger. Her head falls back, shoulders rising and falling as if sighing, before she methodically readjusts the table to its original position.
I blanch, nearly dropping my beer.
Rushing back to my laptop, I rewind thirty seconds and hit play, vaguely aware of Hunter rambling about how he teased Bunny’s date so bad the guy left before drinks were even ordered.
I watch closely as the scene replays, matching each second to how Dove reacted whenever I knocked something off-kilter in her office—how she’d pause before setting it back exactly as it was.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
“Hey, Hunt? You never find any fingerprints at the crime scenes, do you?” I think about the way the Doll’s fingers felt against my skin—smooth, with rough edges, like she’d taped something over the pads or coated them in glue .
“Nope.” He pops his p. “The scenes are always wiped clean.”
Sitting back, I drag a hand down my face, weighing whether to tell him. But at my core, I know he’d be obligated to investigate, and I can’t stomach the idea of Dove sitting behind bars.
The Doll doesn’t belong in prison. I don’t care if she murders men. The disgusting bastards deserve it.
And it doesn’t seem like Hunter is all that concerned with catching her.
“You guys don’t seem too worried about catching the Doll or the Siren,” I lead, hoping he bites.
He does. “This is off the record, obviously, Wren. But they kill the bad guys the world’s better off without. Some of us aren’t exactly itching to put them behind bars.”
Long after we’ve hung up, after I’ve matched nearly every coincidence, I’m convinced.
Dove Carroway is the Baby Doll Killer.