the doll. Maybe whoever had found it had washed it, taken care of it all these years...
For what possible purpose?
As happy as she’d been to see the doll again, now she realized how unlikely that was. Why would anyone care about some silly rag doll? And how could someone possibly know she was the one who’d lost it all those years ago?
After being her constant companion from as far back as she could remember, Trixie had been the worse for wear before DJ had misplaced her. The doll had spent too many years tucked under one of DJ’s chubby arms. So how—
With a jolt, she recalled the accident she’d had with the doll and the dog that had taken off with it all those years ago. The dog had ripped off one of Trixie’s legs. With DJ screaming for help, her father had chased down the dog, retrieved the leg and later, at her pleading, painstakingly sewn it back on with the only thread he could find, black.
Her fingers trembling, she lifted the dress hem and peered under the only slightly faded red pantaloons. With both shock and regret, she saw that there was no black thread. No seam where the leg had been reattached.
This wasn’t her doll.
It surprised her that at thirty-five, she could feel such loss for something she’d been missing for so many years.
She stared at the rag doll, now more confused than ever. Why would people break into her apartment to leave it for her? They had to have known that she’d owned one exactly like it. Wouldn’t they realize that she’d know the difference between hers and this one? Or was that the point?
DJ studied the doll more closely. She was right. This one and Trixie were almost identical, which meant that whoever had made them had made two. Why?
She’d never questioned before where her doll had come from. Trixie was in what few photographs she’d seen of her childhood, her doll locked under her arm almost like an extension of herself.
Like hers, this one looked more than thirty years old. The clothing was a little faded, the face even blanker than it had been all those years ago, but not worn and faded like Trixie had been when DJ had lost her.
DJ felt a chill. So who had left this for her?
Someone who’d had this doll—a doll that was identical to hers before Trixie’s accident. Someone who’d known there had been two identical dolls. Someone who knew this doll would be meaningful to her.
But why break in to leave it for her tucked under the covers? And why give it to her now? A life on the run had taught her one thing. The people who had left this wanted something from her. They could have mailed it with a note. Unless they had some reason to fear it could be traced back to them?
Regrettably, there was only one person she could ask, someone she hadn’t spoken to in seven years. Her father.
She took a couple of deep breaths as she walked back into the living room. She’d left the door open in case she had needed to get out fast, but now she moved to close and lock it.
With her back against the door, she stared at the apartment she’d come to love. She’d made a life for herself here, and just the thought of being forced to give it up—
She was considering what her intruder might want from her when she felt a prick and dropped the doll. Sucking on her bleeding finger, she stared down at the rag doll. The dress had gaped open in the back to expose a straight pin—and what looked like the corner of a photograph.
Carefully picking up the doll so it didn’t stick her again, she unpinned the photo and pulled it out. There were three people in the snapshot. A man and two women, one young, one older, all dark-haired. The young woman, the only one smiling, was holding a baby.
She flipped the photo over. Written in a hurried hand were the words: Your family.
What? She quickly turned the photograph back over and stared at the people pictured there.
She’d never seen any of them before, but there was something familiar about the smiling woman holding the baby. DJ realized with a start that the woman looked like her. But how was this possible if her mother had died in childbirth?
If it was true and these people were family...was it possible she was the baby in the photo? Why would her father have lied if that were the case? He knew how much she would have loved having family. He’d always said it was just the two of them. But what if that wasn’t true?
Still, she thought as she studied the photo, if it was true, wouldn’t they have contacted her? Then she realized they were contacting her now. But why wait all these years, and why do it like this?
The reason hit her hard. No one had wanted her to know the truth.
But someone had decided to tell her.
Or warn her, she thought with a shiver.
“Are you sure it’s the same doll? I thought you lost it years ago.”
DJ gripped the utilitarian standard black phone tighter as she looked through the thick Plexiglas in the prison visiting room at her father.
Walter Justice had been a big, handsome man who’d charmed his way out of trouble all his life—until it caught up with him one night when he’d gotten involved in a robbery that went badly and he ended up doing time for second-degree murder. He had aged well even in prison, and that charm was still there in the twinkle of his blue eyes, in his crooked-toothed smile, in the soft reassuring sound of his voice.
She hadn’t been able to wait until visiting day, so this was the best that could be done on short notice with the prison warden. But as surprised and pleased as her father had been to see her, he’d given the doll only a cursory look.
“It’s the same doll,” she said impatiently into the phone. “It’s just not mine. Apparently someone made two of these dolls. The clothes are handmade—just like my doll. Everything is identical except the doll isn’t mine,” she explained impatiently. “So whose is it?”
“How should I know?”
“You have to know where my doll came from,” she argued.
“DJ, you don’t really expect me to remember where we picked up a rag doll all those years ago, do you?”
“Yes, I do.” She frowned, remembering a photo she’d seen of when she was a baby. Trixie had been lying next to her. “I had it from as far back as I can remember. You should remember if someone gave it to me when I was a baby.”
He glanced away for a moment. “Look, if you think it is some kind of threat, then maybe you should disappear for a while.”
She hadn’t said she thought it was a threat. Her eyes widened in both alarm and anger. What wasn’t he telling her?
“That is all you have to say? Run? Your answer to everything.” She thought of the cheap motels, the carryout food, the constantly looking over her shoulder, afraid someone would either kill her father or take him from her. First sign of trouble—and there was always trouble when your father is a con man—and
