Page 59 of Cracked Doll

Amara softens, reaching out to pat my arm. "Right. Come on then, let's get some food in you. You look like you've seen a ghost—well, more ghosts than usual."

As I follow her out of the room, I glance back at the window one last time. The curtains are still fluttering in the breeze, and I know, with a sickening certainty, that Rhys is still out there, watching me, waiting.

Chapter 18

I’m sitting on the porch steps of Amara’s house, the afternoon sun feeling far too bright for the filth swirling in my head. I can’t stop thinking about him. Rhys. That absolute fucking lunatic. His voice is still echoing in my ears, dripping with that poetic, unhinged madness, but it’s not the "Sandman" bullshit that’s eating me alive.

It’s what he said about Cordelia and Rosalind. Something happened that night... and it seems like I don't seem to recall.

The arrogant prick. I recall. I recall every fucking second of it, even if I’ve spent seven years trying to scrub the images from the back of my eyelids.

I close my eyes, and suddenly I’m twelve again. I can smell the cloying scent of vanilla frosting and cheap party streamers. It was our twelfth birthday. We were triplets, three identical dolls in matching lace dresses with oversized satin bows pinned into our hair. We’d spent the evening at the Tin Heart toy shop, our father beaming, taking photos of us huddled around a cake, playing the part of the doting Papa while he entertained the other kids.

Then, the house went quiet that night. Papa had left us alone for a bit, and Cordelia—always the ringleader—convinced us to stay up past our bedtime to watch TV.

We were lined up on the sofa. Rosalind was at the far end, closest to the door. Cordelia was in the middle. I was at the end, pressed against the cold wall, feeling small and safe.

Then the door opened.

A man walked in. I can’t remember his face—it’s a blur of shadow and malice—but I remember the knife. A heavy, wide-bladed butcher’s knife that caught the dim light of the living room.

He didn't hesitate. He lunged for Rosalind first.

I remember the sound first—a wet, sickening thud. He drove the blade into her stomach, over and over, the steel ripping through her birthday dress. Rosalind didn't even have time to scream before the first few blows, but then it happened—a high, piercing shriek that tore through the room. Cordelia and I screamed too, a synchronized wail of pure, primal terror. He just kept stabbing, the knife sinking deep into her abdomen, her small body jerking with every plunge until she was nothing but a heap of blood and lace.

He tossed her aside like a piece of rubbish and grabbed Cordelia.

She tried to fight, tried to scramble away, but he was too fast. He gripped her by the hair and drove the butcher’s knife deep into the side of her neck. I heard the cartilage snap, the blade nearly severing her head from her shoulders. Blood sprayed across the wallpaper, a violent, hot crimson. He threw her onto the floor next to Rosalind, their dresses soaking up the gore.

Then, he turned to me.

I was paralyzed. I couldn't breathe, couldn't move a fucking muscle. I just stared at him, locked in his gaze. His eyes were like two dark voids, and for a heartbeat, I saw my own reflection in them—a terrified, trembling little girl staring back at a monster.

And then, for some reason I will never understand, he just... stopped. He didn't stab me. He didn't even touch me. He just turned around and walked out of the house as calmly as if he’d just finished a chore.

I remember the silence that followed, broken only by the wet, rattling sounds of my sisters' dying breaths. Then Papa appeared. He scooped me up in his arms, his voice a soothing murmur, telling me it was okay, that I was safe now. He carried me downstairs to the toy shop and used the landline to call 999.

A shaky sigh escapes my lips, and I open my eyes, blinking back tears. The memory is a jagged piece of glass in my chest.

"Oi, Ophelia. What's up with you, love?"

I jump slightly as Amara settles onto the steps beside me. She’s looking at me with that genuine concern that always makes me feel like a fraud.

"I... I was just thinking," I whisper, my voice sounding thin. "About my sisters. I was told the man who did it is in jail for life. But Amara... no officer ever came to ask me what I saw. Not really. I was the key witness, the only one left, yet I never went to court. I never testified. It’s like they just... brushed me aside."

I grip the edge of the wooden step, my knuckles white. "And I don't even know where they are. Papa told me he’d put them somewhere special. Next to my mother. He just hugged me and told me I was safe. That was it. No grave, no headstones, no funeral. Nothing."

Amara frowns, her expression hardening. "That's absolute bollocks, Ophelia. You can't just 'not testify' in a double murder case. Something smells fishy as fuck." She shifts closer, her voice determined. "Would you like to go to the police station? It's your family's case; they can't exactly refuse to give you the file if you demand it."

I feel a surge of panic. The thought of sitting in a sterile room, under fluorescent lights, facing strangers... it makes my stomach churn.

"I can't," I mutter, looking down at my boots. "I can't look people in the eye, Amara. Not because I'm scared of them, but... that night. It scarred me. I can't... I wouldn't be able to express myself. I'd just freeze up like a fucking idiot."

Amara reaches over and squeezes my hand, her grip firm and grounding.

"That's fine, you daft thing. I'll go with you. I'll do the talking, I'll be your mouthpiece, and I'll tell them to shove it if they give you any grief. We'll get the truth, Ophelia. I promise.”

The walk to the station is a blur of grey pavement and the oppressive weight of my own thoughts. Every step feels like I’m dragging a fucking anchor behind me. Amara is beside me, her presence the only thing keeping me from floating away into a panic attack. She’s been quiet for a while, letting the horror of my story settle as I recalled to her all I remember of that night, but as we approach the heavy glass doors of the precinct, she speaks up.