Page 60 of Cracked Doll

"One thing, Ophelia," she says, her voice low and serious. "You said you looked right into his eyes. That you saw your own reflection in them. You must remember what he looked like. A nose, a jawline, a scar... something, love."

I stop dead in my tracks, the cold air biting at my skin. I try. I really fucking try. I reach back into that dark, blood-soaked room, trying to find the face of the man with the butcher's knife. But there’s nothing. Just a void. A smudge of charcoal where a human being should be.

"I don't," I whisper, my voice trembling. "I can't recall it at all. I haven't... not for a long time. It was there, right at the start, but then it just vanished. Probably not too long after that night. It’s just... gone."

Amara stops and turns to me, her brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "How the fuck is that possible? You were staring him down while he slaughtered your sisters. That kind of trauma usually burns an image into your brain like a brand. You didn't just blink and forget, Ophelia."

"I don't know!" I cry, the frustration boiling over. "Do you think I want to have a hole in my head where a murderer's face should be? It’s like my brain just decided to delete the bastard to save me from going completely mental."

She sighs, her expression softening, and gives my shoulder a supportive squeeze. "Right. Fair enough. We'll figure it out. Just keep your head up."

We push through the doors, and the atmosphere hits me like a physical blow. The station is a cacophony of misery and bureaucracy. It smells of stale coffee, floor wax, and that distinct, metallic scent of desperation. It’s a bleak, fluorescent-lit hive of activity. Officers in high-vis vests are rushing about, phones are ringing incessantly, and in the corner, a man is shouting something incoherent at a desk sergeant, his face a mask of rage and grief.

I feel small. I feel like a fucking rabbit walking into a den of wolves. I keep my gaze fixed on the scuffed linoleum floor, avoiding the eyes of everyone we pass. The bright lights are too much; they make everything feel exposed, raw, and clinical.

Amara, however, marches in like she owns the place, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. She leads me up to the main reception desk, where a middle-aged officer with a face like a slapped arse is staring boredly at a computer screen.

"Right, listen up," Amara says, her tone brisk and no-nonsense. "I'm here with Ophelia Sorrell. We're here regarding the case of her sisters, Cordelia and Rosalind Sorrell—the double homicide from seven years ago. We need to see the case file and speak with whoever is handling the archives."

The officer doesn't even look up at first. He just sighs, a long, weary sound. "Files are archived. You can't just walk in and demand a murder file. You'll need to fill out a request form and wait for authorization."

Amara leans in, her voice dropping an octave, becoming dangerous. "She was the key witness. The victims’ sister. Now, you can either be a helpful prick and find us someone who actually knows what they're doing, or I can start making a right royal scene in the middle of your lobby. Your choice, sunshine."

The officer finally looks up, blinking at Amara’s intensity. He glances at me—I quickly look away, staring intensely at a smudge of dirt on my boot—and then back to her. He lets out a huff of annoyance and gestures toward a row of hard, plastic chairs against the wall.

"Fine. Sit your arses down and wait. I'll see if the sergeant is available to take a statement or point you toward the records office. Don't move."

Amara guides me to the chairs. As I sink into the cold, uncomfortable plastic, I feel the walls closing in. I'm surrounded by strangers, the noise of the station humming in my ears, and all I can think about is that missing face. The void in my memory feels like a screaming mouth, telling me that the truth is far worse than a simple case of forgetting.

I don’t know how long we sit there. Time feels like it’s stretching, turning into something thick and suffocating. Every time the heavy doors swing open, I flinch, expecting to see a ghost or a monster. But instead, a man in a rumpled brown suit emerges from the back offices. He looks like he hasn’t slept since the nineties—bags under his eyes, a tie that’s slightly crooked, and a weary, clinical expression that tells me he’s seen too many tragedies to actually care about mine.

"Miss Sorrell?" he asks, his voice a dry rasp. "I'm Detective Miller. Follow me."

I don't move at first. I can't. Amara has to nudge me, her hand firm on my back, urging me forward. I follow him down a narrow, dimly lit corridor that smells of old paper and damp concrete. The walls are a sickly shade of yellow, peeling at the corners, and the flickering overhead lights make the whole place feel like a fever dream.

He leads us into a small, cramped office. It’s a claustrophobic box filled with filing cabinets that look like they belong in a museum and a desk buried under a mountain of paperwork. Miller gestures to two wooden chairs that look like they’d give you a splinter just by glancing at them.

I sit, but I can't bring myself to look at him. I keep my chin tucked, my gaze locked onto the scuffed toes of my boots. I feel exposed, like if I look up, he’ll see the jagged holes in my soul, or worse, he'll see the shadow of Rhys lingering behind me.

"Right," Miller begins, leaning back in his chair with a loud creak. "I've looked into the records for the Sorrell case. Seven years is a long time, and as you're likely aware, the case went cold years ago due to a complete lack of leads. No DNA, no weapon recovered, no witnesses who could provide a positive identification."

The world stops. I feel a sudden, sharp ringing in my ears, drowning out the hum of the station. I slowly lift my head, my eyes wide and searching his face for some sign that he's joking.

"What... what do you mean 'cold'?" I whisper, my voice sounding like it's coming from underwater. "My father... he told me the man was caught. He said the bastard was arrested, tried, and is serving a life sentence in prison. He told me it was over."

Miller’s expression doesn't change. He doesn't even blink. "I'm sorry, Miss Sorrell, but no such thing ever happened. There was no arrest. There was no trial. There is no one in prison for the murder of Cordelia and Rosalind Sorrell."

The air leaves my lungs in one violent rush. I feel a wave of nausea hit me, a cold, sickening dread that coils around my stomach. My father lied. He looked me in the eye for seven fucking years and told me the monster was locked away, while all this time, the void had remained open.

"That's impossible," I breathe, my hands beginning to shake. "He wouldn't... why would he..."

"Look," Miller interrupts, sounding slightly annoyed now. "The physical files for the case were kept in the archives, and normally, I would have let you go through them right now. But here's the problem: I can't find them. They're gone. Not misfiled—gone. It looks like they're in the possession of someone else, or they've been purged."

I feel a chill run down my spine that has nothing to do with the drafty room. Someone stole the evidence. Someone erased the trail.

"But the digital system is clear," Miller continues, gesturing to his monitor. "It's a cold case. No arrests, no suspects proven guilty, nothing. We'll do another sweep of the archives, and if we find the physical folder, we'll let you know. But as of right now, there is no one serving time for those deaths."

The silence that follows is deafening. I feel like I'm disintegrating, the floor beneath me turning into a pit of black ink. My father’s face flashes in my mind—his controlling gaze, his secrets, the way he burned my mother's things. He didn't protect me from the truth; he built a wall of lies to keep me blind.