Page 125 of What We Brave
"You ARE."
"I'm not scared of dolls. That one specifically is cursed."
She advances toward me, holding Margaret out like a weapon. "Margaret just wants to be your friend, Blake."
"Margaret can go back to where she came from."
Laine cackles. Full-on villain laugh. The kind that turns heads three stalls over. "This is the best day of my life."
"I'm leaving you here."
"No you're not." She sets the doll down, still giggling. "But oh my goodness, we have to buy her."
"Absolutely not."
"Not for us." Her eyes are sparkling now. Scheming. And I know that look. Nothing good has ever followed that look. "For Reid."
I pause. "What do you mean, for Reid?"
"Think about it. We sneak into his room while he's at work. Put her on his pillow. Maybe sitting up in a chair facing the door."
The image forms in my mind. Reid coming home after a twelve-hour shift. Opening his bedroom door. Finding Margaret waiting for him with her dead eyes and cracked smile.
I shouldn't encourage this.
"We could put her in the bathroom cabinet," I hear myself say. "We'll take out the shelves, so when he opens it looking for toothpaste —"
"YES." Laine grabs my arm. "Yes, Blake. This is why we work."
Something warm floods through my chest at those words.This is why we work.Casual. Like it's obvious. Like she doesn't know she just handed me something I'll carry around for weeks.
"He's going to kill us."
"Worth it."
She picks up Margaret again, cradling the doll like a baby. Marches over to the vendor. Pays eight dollars for our instrument of psychological warfare.
"This is a terrible idea," I tell her as we walk away.
"The best ideas are terrible ideas." She loops her arm through mine, Margaret tucked under her other arm. "Also I want to see his face when he finds her."
"We need to set up a camera."
"Obviously." She steers me toward a table covered in old tools. "Now help me figure out what all these things are."
I let her tow me along, pointing out hand planers and spoke shaves and things I've used a hundred times. She picks up each one, turns it over in her hands, asks questions. Real questions — not small talk questions buthow does this workquestions.
"What about this one?"
"Marking gauge. For drawing lines parallel to an edge."
"And this?"
"Coping saw. For cutting curves."
"This?"
"That's a..." I take it from her. Turn it over. Run my thumb along the mechanism. "Actually, I don't know. Some kind of specialized joinery thing."
