She inhales, like she’s starting to say something, then shuts down. Her body softens against me.
“Give me another hour and we’ll go out, okay? It’s sunny out and there’s a forest preserve not far from here. We can walk through the woods.”
“Okay.” She blows out a breath and scoots off my lap. Padding across the room in her bare feet, she grabs the television remote and clicks it on.
I roll my head, working out the stiffness in my neck. I’ve been at this for hours, consumed with wanting all the answers. There’s no telling how long we actually have before something or someone catches up to us. I’ve debated calling the precinct, but in the end, kept to my gut. Getting them involved would bring more obstacles than aid. I’m no computer genius, but so far, I haven’t come across anything I can’t crack on my own thanks to the few courses I took while considering going for a federal job.
Once we’ve cleared the air, taken care of everything, then I can bring them in for the clean-up.
I click open another file, expecting to find a laundry list of usernames. It’s another video, but instead of being labeled Dolly-7, it has Dolly’s real name. Abigail.test.mov
She’s buried herself under the covers and is engrossed in the sitcom rerun she’s watching. I make sure the volume on the computer is low enough she can’t hear, then click play.
A younger version of the woman I know now appears on screen. She’s sitting on a bed in a motel room similar to the one we’re in. Her hair is shorter, curls framing her innocent face. Her legs are tucked up to her chest, and she hugs them to her while watching whoever fiddles with the camera.
She couldn’t be more than fifteen in the video, maybe younger. My estimates on age aren’t always accurate.
“Now, Gabby. I asked you to get dressed, didn’t I?” a male voice chastises. He walks on screen, a looped belt in one hand. I can’t see his face, only his damn trousers. The bottom of a concert poster can be seen on the wall. This is her bedroom. He did this in her house. Where the fuck was her mother?
I blink and shake my head as she lowers her legs from the bed.
“Daddy, I don’t want to do this,” she says. It’s soft, and the plea heavy, but I hear her clearly.
“Gabby, now. Or you’ll have to pay a consequence.” He taps the belt against his leg, and her attention snaps to it. Her complexion pales, but she gets moving. My breath stills in my throat as I watch everything unfold. She undresses for him, and he praises her, touches her. She winces and cries, but he doesn’t care. Scars litter her chest and stomach, fresher than the pale white marks I kissed only last night.
Finally, air comes back into my lungs as rage pushes my heart into a gallop. He’s hurting her, touching her, making her touch him.
I slam the computer shut, unable to take in another second of her torment.
It didn’t start in the playroom.
Tears burn my eyes.
So many people have hurt her.
When I look up again, Dolly’s staring at me, her lips pressed into a thin line and forehead wrinkled with worry. Her gaze flickers to the closed laptop on the desk.
“Dolly, come here.” I put my hand out to her.
She pushes the covers out of the way and slides off the bed. With measured steps, she walks toward me, her head down and fingers wiggling at her sides, like a little girl about to confess to a sin.
But it’s not her sin.
“Dolly, tell me how you came to be in the house. How did you end up there?”
She stiffens and bites down on her lip.
“I don’t really remember—”
“Dolly.” I let my voice go hard. I hate it, but she responds to it. “No lying.”
“I’m sorry.” She sucks in air through her teeth. “I was supposed to meet my parents for dinner.”
“For your birthday,” I offer when she stops.
“Yes. My birthday.”
“And?” She’s trembling, but I won’t touch her yet. Once she gets through letting it all out, I’ll wrap my arms around her and cradle her until the hurt fades.
“My father…my dad…he, uh…” She dashes away a tear from her cheek. “I wasn’t a good daughter. I caused trouble, and he needed money.”
A fire ignites in my veins. “What did you do that makes you think you weren’t a good daughter?” I force my tone to remain flat. I’m not angry with her, but she might not understand that.
“I didn’t listen to him sometimes. He had to make me listen, and he hated having to do that. It made my mom sad. And then, when I got old enough to go to college, he said I could go, he said he could pay for it, but something must have happened because he needed money so bad…” Her words fly out too fast for me to catch every one of them. She twists her fingers together as she rattles on. “And it was my fault because I didn’t listen. I’m old enough to live on my own. He caught me looking for an apartment. It made him really mad.”
I wrap my hand over hers to stop her from hurting herself.
“Your parents didn’t want you to move out?” I ask, urging her to continue.
“No. Daddy said I couldn’t move out yet. But I didn’t listen.”
“Wait a second.” I think back to her file, to everything I poured over the day I had my hands on it. I don’t remember where it said she lived, but why would her parents be meeting her for dinner if they lived in the same house?
“You were meeting them for dinner?” I jump ahead to the dinner. I don’t need to go backwards to know what she endured at the hands of her father; the evidence played on the screen before me.
She nodded and shrugged at the same time. “That’s what he told me. He said we were meeting Mom for dinner. But he didn’t take me to the restaurant.”
My hand squeezes hers.
“Dolly.” It’s a command for her attention, and she obeys without hesitation. “Did your dad bring you to the house?”
She shook her head. “No. A factory or warehouse or something. There were a lot of buildings, but they were empty.”
The same place they snagged me and Cathy.
“Do you remember what they said? Did you see them?”
She raises her eyes to meet mine. “Do you hate me?”
The question catches me off guard. Hate her?
“Why would you think that?” I demand, and it’s not forced. How could she think something like that?
“If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have been taken either. Dad wouldn’t have brought me there if I hadn’t been so much trouble, and you wouldn’t have come looking for me. You wouldn’t have been hurt if I hadn’t been so horrible.” Her steady tone matches the sincerity in her eyes. She truly believes all this is her doing because she didn’t let her father rape and molested her at will. My chest clenches, but I steel my gaze. I won’t let my anger make her afraid of me.
“You did nothing wrong. Everything he did to you—” I cut off my words before my anger makes me scream them. “Everything he did to you was wrong.” My throat burns with the need to cry out in rage. Her father doesn’t deserve another breath.
“If I had maybe—”
I press my finger to her lips. “No. This is his fault. This is the fault of the fuckers who bled out in that playroom. Not yours.” I keep a hard tone. She needs to believe me. She needs to understand, because once we finish with her father, I can’t take the chance of her blaming herself for his demise either.