Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 120230 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120230 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
I knew exactly what she meant. Back when we’d been teens and Mr. and Mrs. Shepherd alive, we’d all hung out at the Shepherd home, had grown up seeing the doll—and being disturbed by it in ways we couldn’t articulate at the time.
Creepy Bea.
I didn’t remember which one of us had given the doll that moniker, but it had stuck.
“It’s an effect called ‘the uncanny valley,’ ” I murmured, kneeling down beside the bed so I could look more closely at the doll without having to touch it. “Humans don’t like artificial things that come within a whisker of looking human. Things that do look human at first glance . . . but aren’t. It incites a kind of visceral revulsion in us.”
The artisan who’d made this doll had been far too gifted. I’d seen photos of Bea when she was the age at which the doll had been created, and it was as if the doll maker had shrunk adorable six-year-old Bea down into doll form.
Darcie’s doll, while beautiful, didn’t incite the same cold nausea in the gut. It had either been worked on by someone else, or the doll maker had realized their mistake with the first doll and slightly altered her doll so that it didn’t look like it was a breath away from coming to life.
“Who did this?” A shrill demand from Darcie. “Which one of you did this?”
I looked over my shoulder at Vansi, who’d kept her distance—not a surprise. Of the entire group, it was my best friend who’d been the least enamored with Creepy Bea. She’d refused to even take Halloween pics with it. “Dolls are creepy in general and that one is gonna come to life one day and stab someone,” she’d muttered darkly.
Bea had laughed so hard she’d cried.
“Don’t look at me.” Vansi shivered just as Phoenix appeared behind her. “You know I could never stand that thing. No way would I voluntarily touch it.”
“I thought it was your sister’s?” Grace asked Darcie, hugging herself. “Did I misunderstand?”
I was the one to answer, Darcie’s mouth a flat line and her eyes stark pools. “You didn’t. That’s definitely Bea’s doll.” I stared again at the thing, only now noticing that it was no longer in the close-to-pristine condition in which I’d last seen it.
Bea might’ve allowed photos with the doll, but we’d all known not to mess with it. Not because it was expensive but because it was Bea’s most cherished possession from childhood. As a result, it had survived to adulthood all but unscathed.
Now, however . . .
A slight scuff mark on the neck. A tear on the strap of the overalls—or was that fraying? I’d have to get closer to make sure. My vision wasn’t good enough at this distance, especially in this light.
“Somebody had to do this!” Darcie’s scream held a ragged edge. “Bea had that doll with her!”
My eyes widened. “Darcie? Are you saying that you put the doll in the casket with Bea before the cremation?”
“What?” Darcie seemed unable to look away from the doll, but when she finally jerked her head toward me, I sucked in a breath. Her pupils were so huge they’d all but swallowed her irises.
“It was her favorite.” Almost a plea. “I know she made fun of it, but it was still one of the things she wanted with—”
One of the things she wanted with her when she left us, I completed silently. Because that was what Beatrice had done. Left us all. Just packed up and taken off without a word. She hadn’t told Ash or Darcie, but she had informed their family doctor—a friend and mentor—that she was leaving on purpose.
Oh.
Had to be the same doctor Ash had mentioned, the one whose death had devastated Darcie. Dr. Cox. He’d walked Darcie down the aisle, I remembered belatedly, standing in for her father—who’d been his closest friend. While I hadn’t spoken to him at the wedding, I had a vague memory of strength and warmth.
Exactly the kind of man who would’ve stepped in to help Bea and Darcie in the aftermath of their parents’ deaths. He’d also apparently tried to talk Bea out of her plans. When that hadn’t worked, he’d contacted Darcie and let her know that her sister was taking off.
Darcie had attempted to call her, find out what was going on, received no reply. And the doctor hadn’t known where she’d gone, just that she’d left of her own accord.
We’d been left in limbo, Bea gone without a trace.
Until one day, seven horrible months later, Darcie had received word of her sister’s suicide. In a cabin in some remote South Island township. She’d left without a word, too, gone to Beatrice alone.
I knew her next decision had been made in grief, but I’d never forgive her for taking away my chance to say a proper goodbye to my friend. For cremating our cherished Bea so far from home, then scattering her ashes as if she deserved no ceremony, no celebration of a life dazzling and joyous.