Page 92 of She’s a Doll

My voice crackled from his phone, small and swimming in static. He had me on loudspeaker. That was good. It made this next bit easy.

“Hi,” he said, voice oddly thin, hands shaking. “Is this . . . eh . . . Stacy from⁠—”

“Stacy James from Earnsway Construction Suppliers?” I replied, my tone pitching up until it was peppy, pretty, and professional. “Is that who you were hoping to reach?”

“Yes. Are you her? I was told there was a shipment arriving at the construction site, but I’m here and⁠—”

“I’m sorry. Stacy’s not available right now. Isn’t that a shame. I guess you’re going to have to talk to me.” My voice dropped as I spoke, became rough, became mean, became me. “And, bad news for you, I’m not interested in discussing any shipment.”

“Who⁠—” he began.

“You know who I am.”

I heard his breathing through the phone’s speakers, rushed and ragged.

“You’re . . . you’re Nicola Novković. This is AI. This is⁠—”

“My name is Lucy May McQuinn,” I said, the words ugly and unnatural in the air. “You came to my house. You waited by the door while I put my dog in the other room. You pinned me down on green carpet and strangled me in my Hello Kitty pajamas. Would an AI know that, Kyle?”

Kyle spun around, the light from his phone dancing from shadow to shadow, his heavy breathing duplicated by my phone’s tinny speakers. “I could sue you,” he said, fast, angry, scared. “You understand, you fucking freak? I could end you. I thought you got the message last time. But I guess you’re too fucking desper⁠—”

“Nicola isn’t here.”

“Bullshit she isn’t. I know it’s you. I know⁠—”

“It’s just you and me, Kyle. Just like it was that night. Just you, and me.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Rage rushed through me, arctic cold and screaming like wind, like rain, like the storm at the end of the world. Brutal, bestial, biblical.

“You did this,” I snarled, my bolts twisting, metal joints squealing. “You did all of this. Not me. You. Why did you do it?”

The world blazed white as his light finally landed on me, blinded me. I didn’t care. I didn’t care if he saw me. Actually, I wanted him to see me. I wanted him to understand what he’d made me . . . and what that meant for him.

I dropped the flip phone in the dirt at my feet and slowly, mockingly, waved one claw at him.

“Is this some sort of joke?”

“Why’d you do that to me, Kyle?”

“I never did anything to you that you didn’t want,” he said, voice rough. “You’re crazy. You’re fucking crazy. This whole setup is insane. What? You think you can bring me out here, make a scary toy, use a dead girl’s voice, and I’ll confess? You’re sick, Nicola. You’re sick! I’m married to Ginger. What happened between us is ancient hist⁠—”

“My name is Lucy May McQuinn. You killed me. You held me down and⁠—”

He stormed toward me, sudden and fast, the white blaze of his phone’s light blinding me, not giving me any time to react. The only thing I saw was the square toe of his leather shoe as it struck me, hard enough that my metal limbs snapped back, a bolt shearing out of my joint. I scrambled away, shocked, though I wasn’t sure why. I should’ve known he’d do this. I should’ve⁠—

He kicked me again, hitting me directly in the middle, sending me flying.

I spiraled through the air, limbs flailing, vision a blur of white light, moonlight, his light, and deep inky darkness. I crashed into a puddle, clawing frantically, but my metal feet slipped off the mud, the dirt.

I saw Kyle striding forward, shrugging off his blazer and throwing it into the dirt.

“I don’t care what you think you know!” he yelled. “You’ve got nothing. Nothing. You’re just a sad loser who couldn’t let it go. If you had anything against me, you’d be at the police station. But you don’t. You’re nothing, Nicola. Nothing.”

He grabbed me, fingers clenching tight around my Meccano limbs, yanking me up into the air.

I grabbed at his wrists, my claws sinking into his skin, drawing blood, but he didn’t let me go. He’d dropped his phone. It lay on the ground, the light shining up, painting the underside of his jaw, nose, and brows, transforming his eyes into black pits, his snarl into a dark, gaping hole. I could see the lines of his grimace, carved deep and familiar into his skin, smell the stale stink of his sweat, hear the angry, wet hiss of his breath.