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“I’m not ready,” I whispered.

I couldn’t bring myself to draw X yet. Not today. Carefully, I wrapped her once more. Every fold of linen was done with reverence and a whispered promise.

Once she was safely tucked away, I rested my palm on top of her for a moment.

“I won’t forget you.”

I reached for one of the dolls from the original group. The porcelain face had a tiny chip mark near her temple. Brown eyes stared back at me. She was beautiful, fragile, and utterly forgotten.

At least until now. I hugged her to my chest and set up my phone to Bluetooth. As music poured out of the speaker, I let my mind wander.

Who was she? What happened to her?

Sometimes I wished X would have answered yes when Sonny asked if she wanted to know what happened to them that day so long ago. One of the other burning questions I had was, were they the first group of girls taken?

Everything inside me said yes. Maybe it had to do with the fact that Sonny’s display case only had the two sets. Surely, if there was another group between, they would have been on the second shelf and not us.

The other question I had was why go younger? Because the Mask most certainly had. The original four girls were older. Late teens, maybe. The bodies on the dolls reflected full figures.

I traced a finger lightly along the sleeve of her dress. Maybe trying to draw them and find a way to identifying them was a stupid idea.

What would it solve? It wasn’t like I had answers I could give a detective. I thought about Nik and how he’d be willing to help me. But the reality was, these relics weren’t clues in a mystery game.

They weren’t a puzzle. They were girls. Real girls. Girls who once had favorite songs, friends, dreams—families. Girls who deserved more than whatever horror they’d met. They deserved more than being locked inside a display cabinet.

Anger, hurt, and confusion flared inside me.

“You deserve a name.”

The whispered words echoed through my head. Taking a deep breath, I carried her to my table. I carefully set her up, fixed her pink dress, and then tilted her head to catch the light.

Somewhere along the way, I allowed myself to sink into my medium. I dragged the drawer open and reached inside. My hand shuffled through the folders before sliding out a single sheet of heavy texture rag paper.

It was thick and cream-colored, with rough, torn edges that caught on my dry fingertips. I pressed the paper against the wooden backing of the easel, sliding the heavy metal clips into place. There was a satisfaction in the series of sharp, echoing snaps.

From a ceramic jar on my workbench, I retrieved a stick of willow charcoal. I didn’t want the clean precision of a graphite pencil. My fingers craved the messy, blunt weight of the blackened wood.

I rolled the stick between my thumb and forefinger, feeling the powdery residue instantly coating my skin. I took a deep breath and let instinct take over.

With a small pocket knife, I shaved the tip, watching the black flakes flutter to the ground like soot. I raised my hand back to the blank page. My knuckles were white as I held the charcoal poised. My breathing evened out as I locked eyes with the doll across from me.

The first line appeared. Then another. The frantic thoughts moved farther away with each stroke. The world narrowed to just this moment. Light, shadows, and shapes.

Moments into the sketch, a strange sense of calm settled over me. My art would put me back together, give me clarity, and provide the escape I needed. The music filling the studio enveloped me. I focused on every detail, losing myself.

Hours passed. The serene expression of the doll had disappeared somewhere along the way. In its place stood a girl carrying the same haunted uncertainty that lived inside me.

The result felt more honest. More real. A soft knock sounded on the door. My head snapped up, and I looked at my phone. It was past dinnertime. I quickly sent a message to my girls and asked for privacy. And then changed the playlist before pulling out another piece of paper and attaching it to the easel.

Time to draw her authentically. In order to do that, I had to estimate her potential age and research clothing trends. Hell, I was prepared to draw her in every decade if that helped. By the time I finished the fourth sketch, it was nearly three in the morning. My back ached and my fingers were stained.

The house beyond the studio walls had long since fallen silent. I cleaned my supplies and returned everything to its place before crossing to the storage cabinet. After rummaging around, I found a pillow and a blanket. That was all I needed.

I spread them across the sofa and sat down heavily. For a moment, I stared at my phone, determined not to check my messages. That lasted all of one minute. I punched the code in and tried not to cry.

Several from Tori and Kinsley. One from Marcel. Thank God for his restraint.

Nothing from Pasha.