by Jaycee Clark
“You knew me, and I knew you, a long, long time ago.”
* * *
Paige held the pot of coffee and watched the man. Was there anything about him that was familiar? She wasn’t sure. He wasn’t that memorable.
“I’m almost hurt you don’t remember me, squirt.”
It was the squirt that pulled a memory out of a long-forgotten tunnel. A time she’d have liked to have forgotten. The foster home that she’d like to forget.
They hadn’t wanted foster kids and why the state had allowed them to have any she never knew. They were strict, didn’t allow any fun, any personal items, any peace. The family’s own children were treated like little princes and princesses.
Squirt.
“Don’t worry, squirt, we’ll have a great birthday for you,” he told her so many years ago when it was the first birthday after her parents died in a car accident. The first of so many and in that dark, cold, unfeeling place.
“Hey,” he said, his hand on her arm jerking her out of old memories and into the here and now.
“Sorry,” he told her. “I didn’t mean to upset you. You went kind of pale.”
She smiled. “Cohen?”
He smiled at her, and the smile she remembered. He hadn’t changed all that much, she saw now. Nothing to tell him apart from anyone else. They’d both sort of faded into the woodwork and, in that home, that was a good thing.
Those people hadn’t wanted to hear about her friends that she could see and no one else could. They hadn’t wanted to take her to a counselor until the social worker made them. Deeply religious, they’d told her she was wicked to either be lying or, if she really did see them, then she was evil.
She’d hated that family.
Hated that time.
Hated everyone but Cohen. Cohen had never doubted her.
He’d been lost to her after the fire, after she’d lost her temper and they’d locked her in her room. The fireman had busted the door down and rescued her.
She’d never had to go back to them again.
After that, she was transferred to a foster family out of state and she was just fine with that. Though they too had taken her to shrinks, gotten her meds, but they at least had been nice. If not accepting. Cohen, had been the only one before Sammy, who had simply accepted and never doubted her.
“Cohen! Oh my God! It’s been so long!”
He smiled again at her. “It has.”
“Where have you been? What have you been up to? Are you visiting?”
He shook his head. “No, I live here. Have for about ten years. And you, you own this bakery?”
She shook her head and glanced around at the other patrons. The ghosts were nowhere around, thank goodness. She’d had a headache for a week thanks to the constant barrage of the others.
It was quiet now. She’d forgotten there was almost a hum when they were around. Strange, she only noticed that when they weren’t around.
“Hey, who’s this?” Sammy asked, dropping off a slice of quiche at another table and coming over.
“This is an old, old friend, I haven’t seen in years.” She shook her head again at Cohen. “Why didn’t you say something the first day you came here? What were you going to do, wait and see how long it took me?”
He chuckled, deep and smooth. “Took you a while. I figured I’d let you know who I was, put you out of your misery.”
She grinned and turned to Sammy. “We were in a foster home together years and years ago. Right after my parents died. Not a good time. I’d forgotten a lot of that time. The one good thing was my friend, Cohen.”
“That was a bad time, bad place, too.”
“Yeah,” she agreed. “So what do you do?”
“I’m a pharmaceutical rep,” he told her. “Travel around to the docs here, sometimes other places. Depends on where they want to send me.”
“Cool.”
“Say,” he asked, her, glancing at his watch. “It’s almost lunch, you want to go grab a bite and catch up?”
She thought about it. She really wanted to go home and sleep for a bit. “Um.”
“Or we can pick another time. I’ll just be traveling later this week and next week.”
And if life had taught her anything it was to take moments for what they were.
“Sure.”
“Oh, go ahead,” Sammy told her. “Tila will be here in a few. And it’s not like it’s busy. Go. Enjoy.”
She looked from her best friend for years to the only friend she’d had during a dark time of her life.
“Well...” Mike had mentioned a late lunch. She could always just catch up with him later.
“It’s just down the street a bit, or we can go somewhere else.” He shifted and stood. “Or another time.”
“No, now’s good,” she answered. “If Mike calls here tell him I’ll meet him here at three.”
That meant she had about two hours with Cohen. He had been her only friend, and she’d enjoyed him, but then again, it was a time she didn’t want to dwell on either. She walked back behind the counter to put some empty dishes into the kitchen and grab her stuff.
Sammy followed her.
“So you two were in the same foster home?” Sammy asked as she stacked dishes.
“Yeah, right after Mom and Dad died. I wasn’t in a good place.” She took off her apron and walked around to the cubbies to grab her purse from the cabinet before she shoved her apron in.
“I don’t remember you mentioning him,” Sammy said.
She shrugged. “Bad time. I guess I forgot about that time as much as I could. I was so upset, so lost. He was my only friend in that home. It was my birthday and I’d wanted a doll. I really wanted my old doll from home, but I didn’t have it. Well, I had it when I moved in, but they took it away. I don’t know why, but the family did, or the parents did. Anyway, I was crying against the tree out back and here comes Cohen.” She smiled. “He’d made me a doll out of some old t-shirt he’d had. A rag doll.” She frowned. “I kept it. Still have it actually.”
“Well, have fun catching up. Want me to call in a few so if it’s weird we can code?”
She grinned. “Yeah, you can. Though I think it’ll be fine and it’s only a couple of hours.”
Sammy just looked at her. “Did he ever know?”
She didn’t have to ask what Sammy was referring to. She nodded. “Before you, he was the only person who ever just believed me, didn’t judge. He was nice.”
“Sounds like someone you needed then. So what happened?”
She shrugged again. “No idea. A few days later, the house caught on fire one night. I’d gotten in trouble and they’d locked me in my room. Cohen couldn’t get the door open and the fireman found him trying to kick the door in. They took us away after that and I never heard from or about him again,” she said softly. “I had forgotten,” she whispered.
Sammy put her hand on Paige’s shoulder. “It’s okay, you know. You have a chance to catch up now. Then you can come back here and go out with a man who’s crazy about you.”
She smiled. “I’ll tell him about Cohen when I get back.”
“He does worry, doesn’t he?” Sammy said. “Go. Text me what restaurant you’re at so I know and someone doesn’t freak when they call and I can honestly say at that point that I know where you are.”
She leaned over and kissed her best friend on the cheek. “Thanks, hon. I’ll see you in a bit.”
Chapter Eight
He watched her come to.
It had been easy. Too easy, really.
She’d come with him, and he’d been happy with that. They’d talked of their lives, of things they liked, what they had experienced and become. She told him all about Mike. She was crazy about that guy, and from what she said and what he saw earlier, he’d have to say the guy felt the same way.
She’d gotten up to go to the restroom and he’d slipped something into her drink. He needed her along but didn’t want to have to force her. This way was much eas
ier. And when she didn’t feel good, he’d told her he’d help her to his car, take her back to the shop, help her if she wanted to call her boyfriend and tell him to come get her.
He’d then slid her into the car he’d had waiting. So easy. Her fingers wouldn’t work, and she’d asked him to call Mike, her cop. He’d pretended he’d called Mike for her to tell him they were meeting him at the bakery. He wondered if the super Mike was looking for her.
It had taken her long enough to come to.
What to do with her? How could he use her? Did he use her? He honestly hadn’t planned to take her today, but the opportunity was too good to pass up.
He simply wanted to share his art, his creations, his dolls with her. He had another one already there. She was locked in the back room. Maybe he should share the whole experience with Paige, how to make and create a masterpiece of art.
No, that wouldn’t work.
Then, he knew exactly what he’d do. He’d have to hurry. He’d share with her, show her his art, his perfect dolls all just for her. And then he’d leave them both, take photos of the little girl and her dolls and then... Then, he’d say goodbye and disappear.
He didn’t have to watch her, it would still be a few minutes for her to come to and she’d be groggy. He had her wrists tethered to a headboard after all. She was lying on her side; he wasn’t a monster. He left her hands together. And now they were tucked up under her cheek as she slept.
All his dolls were around her. On the walls in a perfect symphony of art.
He thought about the image that had solidified in his mind upon his idea.
A pianoforte. She was small enough, it would work. He’d been wondering who he’d put the dress on.
Now he knew why he’d bought it. But she’d always been a mischievous kid. No shoes. Stockings? He’d have to see.
The other woman, though, he’d have to figure something out there. Maybe one of the longer period costumes he had.
He knew the clock was ticking He knew they were looking.
The best friend, the boyfriend. Both had tried to call her as they were leaving after he had pretended to call Mike for her. He’d sent a quick, vague text to them from her phone that she wanted to spend some time with her old friend, and she’d let them know when she was ready to come home. That everything was fine.
Just to add a bit of spice, he’d added she wanted to see his art collection.
He’d then removed the battery from her phone and tucked it away.
Now, though, he wished he’d taken into account how long the drug, a plain old roofie, would work on her. Should have used half a dose, but he’d wanted it to work fast.
He hurried to her room. He’d grab their clothes later.
Why hadn’t he thought of this before? He could do a whole other side to his doll art. Two subjects. Together. Not separate. Not in separate frames or poses. But together.
Giddy now, he filled a syringe planning the details of the new scene in his head.
* * *
She came to slowly. Sounds filtered through as if she was swimming under water. What was wrong?
Cold. It was so cold. Why was it cold here?
Where was she?
She opened her eyes. God, her head hurt and her eyes were gritty. She blinked and blinked again.
The room was not very big for a bedroom. And not one she recognized. Old though, tall ceilings, plastered walls. She knew old buildings in New Orleans. Was she still in New Orleans?
What the hell?
She opened her mouth, which was dry. She licked her chapped lips.
The ceilings were tall, the doors in the room, narrow with old porcelain knobs. It smelled old and musky, and probably moldy too. She couldn’t hear anything. Not really. Maybe the distant sound of traffic. How did she get here?
What did she do?
She wasn’t going to panic. Then she realized her clothes were gone. She was wearing some sort of weird dress with lots of frills. Her heart thrummed hard and she tried to take a deep breath.
Oh God.
Why was she dressed like this?
What had happened?
She couldn’t remember, didn’t know…
“Please don’t worry,” a voice said from somewhere.
She turned her head, which made her wince. “Wh-where am I?”
Did that come out right?
“You’re in my studio. I’ve wanted to share this with you and now I know the perfect way to do that.”
She didn’t know what that meant. She tried to see, tried to remember.
Cohen. She’d gone to lunch with Cohen and then…nothing.
“St-studio? What studio? Who are you?” She pulled at her wrists, and realized they were bound.
No. No. No.
“Careful, don’t pull so hard, you’ll bruise,” he said, stepping into the light.
Cohen. His light hair and dark eyes rested on her. He motioned to the walls and for the first time, she noticed the artwork. Framed black and whites. Of what? She squinted. Dolls? No, women. She shivered. The women. The ghosts.
They were all there in black and white, even some she’d never before seen, or she thought so. Unless he used wigs. The woman with the scarf, the woman in the forties dress, another who resembled a Harvey’s Girl with her hair and dress.
“Wh—What?” she asked softly. “Why?”
“Why? Why what? This is art.” He motioned again. “Art that I created because… well…” He inhaled. “You inspired me.”
This wasn’t happening. This was her friend. Her friend from before. But years had separated them, changed their lives. Who was he?
“Cohen? Are you really even Cohen?”
He tilted his head and then walked over to her. She tried not to shrink away from him. “Of course I’m Cohen. You know that. We talked for almost two hours over lunch. I know, I know I look a little different and I know it’s been a long time, but I’ve waited for you for a long time. A long time to come home, squirt. I missed you.”
“Why?” she asked again, trying to ease away as he reached out to brush her hair from her face.
“They are my creations,” he said, his voice so reasonable, so rational. “We both know what it’s like to see the ugly things in life, to experience them. But sometimes we can see the beauty. Women are simply beautiful. Sometimes death is beautiful. You just inspired me to merge the two and create my art, my dolls. All my dolls just for you.”
“Here’s you a doll,” a long ago voice said. “I know it’s not yours, and it’s not pretty or anything but I want you to have it.”
She’d taken the doll, brushed her fingers over the soft, worn cotton. The faceless doll. She’d been clutching it in the fire that night and the fireman had taken them both out with him. The hospital had let her keep it. A worn red shirt. The stupid thing was still up in the top of her closet.
She’d made him a friendship bracelet the next day after he’d given her the doll.
“I still have my gift you gave me,” he told her and took out his wallet, showing her not just the worn and frayed braided bits of ribbon, but also a faded photo. A photo she’d forgotten about.
What did she do here? What did she say? Did she keep him talking?
“Cohen, they’ll be looking for me. They know who I went with. Sammy knows.” Oh God, Sammy. “You didn’t hurt her, did you?”
“Sammy?” He tilted his lips ruefully. “Now why would I do that? She’s too vibrant for any of the scenes I have planned. Why would you think I’d hurt her?”
Because he was clearly crazy.
He shrugged. “So she knows who you left with. Cohen. So what? You never gave her my last name. Though, I suppose they can find that easily enough. However, I don’t own this house, I’m merely renting it, so it’s not like they’ll find my name on a deed.”
“They know what you look like,” she tried. They’d be looking. What time was it? How much time had passed?
He chuckled. “Most of the time people only see wh
at they want to see, not what’s really there. No one else can describe me.”
The surveillance equipment that the Riggio boys installed. God, she hoped it was working so they would at least know what he looked like.
And did Sammy know he was a pharma rep? Was he really a pharma rep? Maybe not.
“You don’t need to be afraid, Paige,” he said, brushing her hair away from her face.
She cringed inside, but only licked her lips and said, “I-I know. You said that. We’re friends. Right? So please tell me why my friend would do this, do these things?”
He tilted his head. “You always did listen to me, didn’t you? And I always listened to you. First, though, tell me something. Do you like him? Is he special for you or is he just a... convenience?”
She frowned.
“Your cop,” he clarified. “Mike? Isn’t it?”
She nodded. “I-I think so. I hope so, special that is. I mean, he just... just accepts me.” And he did. He didn’t ask a lot of questions and if he did it was so he could know, not so he could judge.
He studied her a moment. “That’s good. That’s good. I’ll admit, I am a bit jealous, but really, I’m not a good fit for anyone. At least no one that I’ve met yet. I’m a little selfish, I know that. Plus, several therapists have informed me that I have trust issues.” He smiled at her. “Can’t imagine why that might be. Can you?”
She grinned back at him; though she knew it wasn’t a real one, maybe he wouldn’t know that.
“Don’t worry about Mike, either. He’ll find you when it’s time.”
She only stared at him. Was that a good thing? Was he tricking her? Did she dare to believe him? How would Mike find her? Even if Mike did find her, would she be her? Or would Mike find her as one of Cohen’s art projects? One of his dolls?
“I don’t want to be art, Cohen,” she whispered. “Or a doll.”
He chuckled and then laughed. “Oh, squirt, you’re the reason for the art. The dolls are gifts for you. I know you can’t keep them, per se, as they wouldn’t really keep, would they?” He smiled. “Another reason I take the photos. It’s like art on several levels. I create them, my dolls, and create another layer with the photographs.” He studied one and tapped it. “I prefer the old bellows method with slides and silver and chemicals, but it’s hard to capture just right. I’ll have to keep practicing. I think it captures a gothic feel to the images. To be honest, I started taking photos first because it interested me.”
