The Dollmaker
In Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana, a terrible secret is about to be uncovered by a woman whose daughter vanished seven years ago without a trace…And now a new clue has surfaced…a doll that is the spitting image of Claire Doucett's missing child, right down to the tiny birthmark on the girl's left arm. A chance sighting of the eerily lifelike doll in a French Quarter collectibles shop leaves Claire shaken to her core…and more determined than ever to find out what happened to her beloved Ruby.When the doll is snatched and the store's owner turns up dead, Claire knows the only person she can turn to is ex-husband Dave Creasy, a former cop who has spent the past seven years imprisoned by his own guilt and despair. He let Claire down once when she needed him the most. Can she make him believe the doll really exists? She'll have to if they're to survive an encounter with a brutal psychopath–the dollmaker–who stole their future to feed an obsession that will never die.
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Praise for
Amanda Stevens
“The sinister world of Amanda Stevens will feed
the dark side of your soul…and leave you hungry for more.” —New York Times bestselling author Christina Dodd
“Breathless, chilling and unforgettable.
When you crack open an Amanda Stevens book, prepare to be thrilled.” —USA TODAY bestselling author Patricia Kay
“Just Past Midnight is a taut and suspenseful tale
guaranteed to keep readers on the edge of their seat. The twists and turns are diabolical, unpredictable and chilling.” —Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“Ms. Stevens shows her magic of writing tales to
snare the reader. She weaves intrigue, believable characters, legends and emotion together seamlessly for an engrossing read.” —Best Reviews on Secret Sanctuary
For Leanne, Lucas and Steven
I am deeply grateful to my editor,
Denise Zaza, and everyone at MIRA Books for their encouragement and support and for helping me turn a dream into reality. Many thanks to my agent, Helen Breitwieser, for her advice and enthusiasm, and most of all, for not allowing this story to fade away. Thanks also to Carla Luan and Heather MacAllister for their tireless brainstorming and critiquing and to Leanne Amann for her innovative PR strategies.
Contents
Prologue
The doll was getting to him. Even though Travis McSwain wasn’t a man easily spooked. She was so lifelike that anyone glancing through the shop window might mistake her for a pretty, little, blond-haired girl.
But up close, the eyes gave her away. They looked like pieces of turquoise. Travis had never seen real eyes that color.
He didn’t like staring at her for too long because his mind kept playing tricks on him. Earlier, when he’d packed her up to bring her into the city, he could have sworn those glass eyes followed his every move. They gave him the chills so bad he’d had half a mind to chuck her in the swamp. But he needed the money and so here he was.
The shopkeeper glanced up from her inspection. “She’s stunning. Absolutely breathtaking. If you’ll just give me a few more minutes we can discuss your payment terms.”
“Take your time,” Travis muttered, but he wished to hell the woman would hurry up. The sooner he got rid of the doll the sooner he’d breathe a lot easier.
Something about that porcelain face creeped him out. It was almost as if Travis had seen her before, in a dream maybe, but he didn’t know how that could be possible. She was one of a kind.
He’d gone up to the old Sweete place looking for work, and when he spotted the doll through the front window, he’d decided to snatch her, because that’s what he did. He took things that didn’t belong to him. It was some kind of sickness, he reckoned.
Before his Pentecostal mother went off the deep end, she used to weep and pray for his immortal soul, but his daddy had favored another approach. Whenever Travis got caught using the five-finger discount, the old man would take a belt to his hide, work him over good until his back and butt cheeks resembled raw steak.
But after the first time Travis got sent off to juvenile detention in St. James Parish, Cletus McSwain’s attitude had changed. He’d pretty much washed his hands of his son. “One of these days you’ll pinch from the wrong person, boy, and end up with a bullet right between the eyeballs. And when that happens, I’ll be damned if I shed a tear over your sorry ass.”
Well, that was fair. Because Travis sure as hell hadn’t done much crying when the pious old bastard got swept off a shrimp boat and drowned in the Gulf. And now here Travis stood, right as rain, while his daddy swam with the fishes down in Terrebonne Bay.
Sometimes you just had to laugh at how things worked out.
Travis leaned an elbow on the counter and tried to assume a casual air as the shopkeeper continued to study the doll. But every once in a while, when the woman wasn’t looking, his gaze would dart to the front window. He didn’t like to put much stock in his old man’s predictions, but ever since he’d taken the doll, Travis had a real bad feeling that maybe, just maybe, he’d gotten in over his head this time. Boosting cars was one thing, but jacking that doll was starting to feel a little like kidnapping.
A shiver snaked up his spine. It was like the damn thing was hexed or something.
He fingered the mojo bag he carried around in his pocket. It’s just a toy.
But the doll was more than a toy. Everyone in Terrebonne Parish knew that Savannah Sweete’s dolls were one of a kind and worth a lot of money. And someone was going to want it back.
He cast another glance at the window. Rain was coming and the gloomy twilight deepened his unease. He was letting his nerves get the better of him, but he couldn’t seem to help it. New Orleans did that to him. He hadn’t been back since Katrina, and the landscape had changed so much he’d hardly recognized the place, driving in. But the soul of the city—the Vieux Carré—remained the same. Travis didn’t know if that was a good thing or not.
