The Doll by Taylor Stevens

mattered, and then added, with a toying smile, “and I will pay for gas.”
    “Tomorrow, so that the drugs have time to flush out of her system?”
    The Doll Maker nodded.
    Munroe pointed to Neeva. “Are you taking her back to the cell?”
    “Yes, of course,” he said. “Until we are ready for transport.”
    “She’ll get dirty again.”
    “The mattress has been changed,” he said, “but still, such a waste.” He took the doll from his arms to rest her on the desk, then walked to Neeva. Ran his fingers through her curls and along the outer seam of the lace and velvet dress. “It would be so much more pleasant if we could keep her like this. She is a true doll. Made to order. A collector’s item. It’s no wonder she fetches such a high price.”
    The Doll Maker nodded toward Lumani, who called the Arbens inside. Together, they lifted Neeva by her elbows and instead of dragging her out the door they worked her nearly useless legs forward.
    Upright, Neeva was even more childlike than she’d appeared while seated. Tiny and slender, she stood five foot two at the most, probably closer to five flat—everything opposite to the larger-than-life personality, the image on the big screen that created something much greater out of this little person.
    “What will they do with her?” Munroe said.
    “Undress her and put her to bed.”
    His words and the nonchalance with which he spoke them sent blood rushing to her head. Munroe took a step in Neeva’s direction, to block the way. An involuntary movement, an urge to protect and intervene so strong that it overcame reason and took her by surprise nearly as much as it did the Arbens, who paused in their exit. She took another step, this time deliberate, and another until she was solidly between Neeva and the door.
    The Doll Maker smiled as if reproving a young child. “It won’t do to become attached to the merchandise,” he said, and when Munroe didn’t move, he added, “She is worth more to me whole than whatever temporary use the men might make of her.”
    Slow and hesitant, she stepped aside and the Doll Maker smiled, triumphant, wordless in his gloating, while the Arbens walked Neeva out the door and Munroe stared after them.
    When the door had shut, the Doll Maker said, “You will stay in the holding area. We’ll leave your door open, but if you attempt to climb the stairs, we will take measures against your collateral. You understand this?”
    Munroe nodded, still moving with the trancelike tempo of the conversation, navigating around the chair so that this time her path took her in Lumani’s direction.
    Throughout this entire exchange the young man had remained silent and motionless, his gaze following his uncle like that of a loyal dog waiting for approval, waiting for orders. Each measured step brought her closer to him, though her attention remained entirely on the Doll Maker, who continued in his smugness.
    In a movement both sudden and violent, Munroe turned midstep and in the heartbeat of Lumani’s delayed reaction, she punched fingers to his trachea and grabbed his wrist.
    She jerked his arm behind his back and shoved him, gagging, to his knees. Lumani’s free hand flexed and reached for his shin, and she, knowing that in his moment of panic he would attemptto access any weapon he carried, moved faster than he did, finding and unsheathing his knife.
    The handle connected with her palm like a creation returning to its mold, metal against skin, familiar and soothing, calling out to be used, begging to shed blood. She pressed the flat of the blade to Lumani’s throat and held it there.
    At the desk, the Doll Maker picked up his doll and, ignoring Munroe and Lumani, cradled her again. In his indifference, as in his lies, no tell of betrayal marked his face, no body language spoke his hidden thoughts. The Doll Maker smiled at the porcelain face that stared lifelessly at him. Without looking up, he said, “You’ll pay for this failure.”
    Lumani