“I could clean up for you.”
“It’s not your turn!”
He stomped out, and for the first time didn’t shut and lock the door. Mary Kate shuffled over as close as she could. She couldn’t reach the door, but at last she could see out of it.
A kind of corridor—stone walls, concrete floor—harshly lit. And another door almost directly across from hers. Bolted from the outside.
Number two? Another woman, another prisoner. She started to call out, but heard him coming back.
Survive, she reminded herself, and went back to the cot, sat.
He didn’t have the knife now, but a tall cup. Some sort of protein shake, she thought. He’d pushed one on her before. Drugged. More drugs.
“Baby darling—”
“I don’t have time now. She ruined everything. You drink this because it has nutrition.”
“Why don’t I make you something to eat? You must be hungry.”
He looked at her, and she thought he seemed almost sane again. And when he spoke, his voice sounded calm and easy. “You’re not ready.” When he stroked a hand over her hair, she fought not to shudder. “Not nearly. But I think you will be. I hope so.”
She felt the quick pinch of the pressure syringe.
“I don’t have time. You can drink this when you wake up. You have to be healthy. Lie down and go to sleep. I’m going to be very busy.”
She started to fade when he walked to the door. And heard the bolt snap home when she melted down on the cot.
* * *
He had a plan. He always had a plan. And he had the tools.
With meticulous stitches—he was a meticulous man—he sewed the neck wound on the fraud. Over the wound he fastened a wide black velvet ribbon.
It looked, to his eye, rather fetching.
He’d already cut her hair before bringing her—with so much hope!—to this stage. Now he brushed it, used some of the product to style it properly.
He’d washed her, very carefully, so not a drop of blood remained, before he’d chosen the outfit.
While he worked, he had one of Mommy’s songs playing.
“I’m coming up,” he sang along with Pink, “so you better get this party started.”
Once he had her dressed, he started on her makeup. He’d always loved watching her apply it. All the paints and powders and brushes.
He painted her nails—fingers and toes—a bright, happy blue. Her favorite color. He added the big hoop earrings, and he’d already added the other piercings, so fit studs into the second hole and the cartilage of her left ear.
And the little silver bar in her navel.
She’d liked shoes with high, high heels and pointy toes, even though she mostly wore tennis shoes. But he remembered how she’d looked at the high ones in store windows, and sometimes they went in so she could try them on.
Just pretending, baby darling, she’d told him. Just playing dress-up.
So he slipped her feet into ones she’d have wished for. A little tight, but it didn’t matter.
And as a final tribute, spritzed her body with Party Girl, her favorite scent.
When he was done, when he’d done his very best, he took a picture of her. He’d frame it, keep it to remind him.
“You’re not Mommy, but I wanted you to be. You shouldn’t have lied, so you have to leave. If you hadn’t, we could’ve been happy.”
Number two and number three were sleeping. He hoped number two had learned a lesson—you had to learn your lessons—when he’d made her clean up the mess.
Tomorrow, he’d cut her hair the right way and give her the tattoo and the piercings. And she’d see all she had to do was be a good mommy, and stay with him always, take care of him always.
And they’d be happy forever.
But the Fake Mommy had to leave.
He rolled her out on the gurney—a man with a plan—out through the door and into the garage. After opening the cargo doors, he rolled her—with some effort—up the ramp and into the van.
He secured the gurney—couldn’t have it rolling around!—then got behind the wheel. Though it was disappointing, he’d known he would probably go through more than one before finding the right one, so he already knew where to take her.
He drove carefully out of the garage and waited until the doors rumbled down closed behind him.
It had to be far enough away from the home he and Mommy would make so the police didn’t come knocking to ask questions. But not so far away he had to take too much time getting there.
Accidents happened.
It had to be quiet, with no one to see. Even at this time of night in New York, you had to know where to find quiet. So the little playground seemed perfect.