Daddy's Little Girl

by William Malmborg

  “At this point, anything you can add will be helpful.” She turned for a moment and called to Owen.

  “Yeah?” he asked, returning to where they were talking.

  “Can you find us a map of the town and surrounding area?”

  “Sure.”

  Her phone buzzed again, and this time she pulled it out to see what Detective Powell had sent.

  It was another picture.

  Of Bitsy.

  What?

  No.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Lindsey!” Liz snapped, voice seemingly trying to be a whisper but failing. “She thinks she’s a fucking doll.”

  “Liz is right,” Gloria said. “This is fucked up. We need to call the police.”

  “But she’s terrified of the police,” Lindsey said.

  “Yeah, because she’s been brainwashed into believing she’s a doll.”

  “What if it’s not that simple?” Lindsey asked.

  “Of course it’s not that simple. This is some seriously fucked-up shit. She thinks she’s a doll.”

  “Which is why we need to really think about this and figure out what exactly is going on,” Lindsey said.

  “No. We need to call the police so that they can figure out what is going on.”

  “Lindsey, you of all people should know this. Your dad is a police officer, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Yeah, and did you see the sweatshirt she was wearing?” Lindsey asked.

  “Yeah,” Gloria said.

  Liz nodded.

  “I’m sure you’ve noticed that I have one just like it,” Lindsey said.

  “So, what about it?” Gloria asked.

  “Think for a moment. They don’t sell those to the public. There are no Smallwood Police Department sweatshirt sales. The reason I have one is because my dad gave it to me.”

  “So?”

  “Do I have to spell it out for you?”

  “Isn’t that what you’re doing now?”

  “Her dad, or whoever this Daddy-man is, could be a police officer.”

  Liz and Gloria didn’t reply to that, understanding appearing on their faces.

  “Well, shit,” Gloria eventually said, and then laughed.

  “And you two are high as fuck.”

  “We kind of are,” Liz said.

  “What do we do?” Gloria asked.

  “I don’t know,” Lindsey said.

  She wished her dad were there. Or at least answering his phone. He would know what to do. He always did.

  In the bathroom, they heard the toilet flush.

  “Guess she’s one of those dolls that pisses,” Gloria said, another laugh escaping.

  Lindsey and Liz simply stared at her.

  “Sorry.”

  “We need to think of something,” Liz said.

  “What about this Misty she keeps talking about?” Gloria asked.

  “What about her?” Lindsey asked.

  “Maybe we can find a picture of her in the yearbook and then at least have a last name. That way we can see if her dad is a police officer.”

  “Shit, that’s not a bad idea.”

  The door to the bathroom opened.

  A moment later, Bitsy joined them in the family room.

  No one said anything for several seconds, the awkwardness heavy.

  Bitsy looked at each of them, almost as if she were studying them.

  She then turned and looked at a picture on the wall, one that featured Lindsey with her parents back before her mother had died.

  “So, Bitsy,” Lindsey said. “How old is Misty?”

  “Um…I don’t know.” She frowned. “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. Look at me for a moment. Do we seem similar? Height, weight, age, hair?”

  “Your boobs are bigger.”

  Gloria let out a snort.

  “They are nice,” Liz said, her own laugh appearing. “Been meaning to mention that.”

  “Shut up,” Lindsey said, voice trying to stay serious.

  “I wish I had boobs,” Bitsy added.

  “When you get older you will,” Liz said.

  “I don’t think so. Misty says I wasn’t made with them, but one day I might be able to get some put in.”

  Lindsey looked around, waiting to see if there would be any more comments about boobs, and when there wasn’t, asked, “Does Misty have a driver’s license yet?”

  Bitsy shook her head. “No, but she’s been asking the Daddy-man to teach her to drive. She says she’s old enough. He keeps promising that they will go out one of these days.”

  “Okay, that’s good. That means she is probably our age and we can help you find her.”

  “Really?” Bitsy asked, excitement appearing.

  “Maybe. Come on, we need to show you something.” Lindsey motioned for Bitsy to head down the hallway toward her bedroom.

  Liz and Gloria followed.

  “Wow, is this your room?” Bitsy asked, eyes wide, head swiveling around to look at everything once they entered.

  “Yep.”

  “Look at all the books!”

  “You like to read,” Lindsey asked.

  “Yes. Misty taught me. Sometimes she lets me have a book and a light while I’m in my box for the night.”

  “In your box?” Liz asked and then looked at Gloria and Lindsey.

  “The toy box. It’s where she keeps me when she isn’t playing with me,” Bitsy said, voice almost dismissive as she looked at the books. “You have Harry Potter!”

  “I do,” Lindsey said. “Have you read them?”

  “I’m on the fourth one now,” Bitsy said. “Misty says her mommy used to read them to her when she was little.”

  “Speaking of Misty,” Lindsey said, joining Bitsy at the shelf. “I want you to take a look at a yearbook and see if you can spot her, okay.”

  “A yearbook?”

  “Yeah, it has pictures in it.”

  “And Misty will be in it?”

  “Probably.”

  “Okay.”

  Lindsey looked at the lower shelves, which were for taller books, light from the candle she held illuminating everything, but didn’t see it. She thought for a second, unsure of where she would have put it, the last time she’d looked at it being right after they were handed out at the end of her sophomore year, her eyes on the lookout for pictures of herself in the various activities she had taken part in throughout the year.

  “Huh,” she said and turned toward the closet, wondering if it was on the shelf in there.

  “Can’t find it?” Liz asked.

  “Not sure. I thought it was down there, but maybe”—she opened her closet—“I put it up here.”

  Nope.

  Books were present on the shelf, along with sketch pads and various magazines, but no yearbooks.

  “Huh,” she said again.

  “Not there?”

  “No.” Where would I have put it?

  “You sure it’s not on the shelf?” Gloria asked, stepping up to the shelf herself and kneeling down to look, head tilted sideways. She used the flashlight app on her phone to look at the covers.

  “Pretty sure,” Lindsey said and did a scan of her room.

  “Misty hides things under her bed,” Bitsy said. “Maybe you put it under there.”

  “Not sure why I would, but…” She got down on her knees and lifted the bed skirt.

  Bitsy joined her.

  “I don’t think it’s under here,” Lindsey said, hand stretching to push a box out of the way. Nothing but a year’s worth of dust was behind the box.

  “Misty always keeps her photo books under the bed.”

  “How come?”

  “So the Daddy-man won’t look at them.”

  “Does he not like her having pictures?”

  “Sometimes.” She pointed. “Maybe in the box?”

  “Let’s see.” Lindsey stretched her arm once again, this time grabbing the top of the box and pulling it toward them.

  It wasn’
t in the box.

  Instead, items from her mother’s battle with cancer were, items that caught her off guard because she had forgotten that she had put all this stuff in a box and tucked it under the bed.

  “Is this your mommy?” Bitsy asked, lifting up a picture.

  “Yeah,” Lindsey said. The picture was of just the two of them at a breast cancer walk. Another version of the picture was downstairs on the wall, that one having been taken by a friend so that her father could be in it as well.

  The pink scarf that her mother had worn during the walk was in the box, as were several pins and ribbons.

  “Just like Misty.”

  “What?” Lindsey asked, blinking away emotion. Several years had passed, yet somehow it all came flooding back.

  “She keeps pictures of her mommy under her bed.”

  “How come?” She rubbed at her eyes, clearing away the moisture that had welled.

  “Her daddy doesn’t like her to have them.” She frowned. “Does your daddy not want you to have these?”

  “No, it’s not that.” She didn’t know how to explain why she had tucked these away. It felt like a protective measure, one that would keep everything safe. “Let’s put this stuff back.” She started to fold the flaps back up on the box, but then stopped when Bitsy reached down and grabbed a pamphlet from the box. “Whoa, hey!”

  “This is where they are!” Bitsy said, excitement present.

  “What?” Lindsey asked. The pamphlet was from the funeral.

  “Misty and the Daddy-man!”

  “They’re at a cemetery?” Gloria asked, leaning in over their shoulders.

  “They are near it,” Bitsy said. “I walked through it after the storm.”

  “You live near the cemetery?”

  Bitsy looked confused.

  “Your house,” Lindsey added. “It’s by the cemetery?”

  “Oh no, our house is gone.”

  “Well, yes, I know, but it was near the cemetery?”

  “No, that’s where our van is. We were looking for a new house. But our van got flipped over into a field.”

  “Your van?” Lindsey said, a sudden memory of her father mentioning a van arriving. One that had been flipped over. Could it be the same?

  Bitsy nodded. “Can you take me to it?”

  Lindsey didn’t reply to that.

  “Please!”

  “What kind of van?” Lindsey asked.

  “What do you mean?” Bitsy asked.

  “Was it an old Volkswagen van?”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Okay, um…hang on a second.” She pulled out her phone, thumbed in her password, and clicked the Internet icon. It took a second, the phone having to use data rather than the home wireless, but eventually it connected.

  She typed VW van and then hit the Image selection once the search results appeared.

  “Does it look like any of these?” she asked.

  Bitsy took the phone and looked at the pictures, while the three crowded around her.

  “Can you make it bigger?” she asked and then felt Lindsey’s boob press into her arm as she leaned in to look at the screen.

  She started acting like a boy.

  “Which one?” Lindsey asked, boob still pressed into her arm.

  No! No! No!

  The pressure did not fade.

  “Bitsy? Which one—”

  “This one,” Bitsy said quickly, pointing to the green one.

  “Just touch it,” Gloria said and reached over to show her, knuckles hitting the phone as Bitsy lifted it toward her.

  It slipped from her fingers and landed between her legs.

  “Oops,” Gloria said, reaching for it.

  Bitsy reached as well, trying to block Gloria’s hand, the thin fabric of the sweatpants doing little to mask her lack of control.

  It was no use.

  Gloria’s hand rubbed against it as she secured the phone.

  Bitsy froze.

  Gloria sprang up from the bed, face showing surprise.

  “I’m sorry,” Bitsy said, crossing her legs.

  “What?” Lindsey asked.

  Gloria didn’t say anything.

  “What?” Lindsey repeated.

  “She’s a…she’s a boy!”

  “Huh?” Lindsey said, looking from Gloria to Bitsy.

  Bitsy shook her head, lips trying but failing to apologize.

  “She has a dick!” Gloria shouted.

  “Fuck me!” Liz said, stepping forward and peering at Bitsy’s lap.

  Lindsey looked down.

  Bitsy could see her eyes go wide.

  Crossing her legs hadn’t helped, not with the sweatpants and lack of underpants.

  And then, as if she didn’t believe her own eyes, Lindsey reached down and took hold of her, and then let go and pulled away.

  “Jesus fucking Christ!”

  “See,” Gloria snapped.

  Bitsy felt the tears flowing, all while her body tried to fold upon itself to mask her boy part. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I didn’t mean to act like a boy.” The other night she had, because Misty had wanted her to, but not just now. This time, it had simply happened. “Don’t tell Misty.”

  Down below, her boy part continued to display itself.

  Go away! she silently screamed at it.

  It didn’t.

  In fact, the more she wanted it to, the more it seemed to stay put.

  Just like the time with the matches and the firecracker.

  “I will blow it off,” Misty had threatened, half the firecracker sticking out of her pee hole, “if you don’t learn to control it.”

  “No! No! Please!” Bitsy had screamed, the pain from the firecracker that had been stuck inside nothing compared to the fear of seeing Misty holding a lit match.

  “Make it go down!”

  “I’m trying!”

  “Try harder!” She brought the match close.

  Bitsy shrieked, hands fighting at the ropes that held her to the tree.

  Misty put the match out against Bitsy’s groin before it burned her fingers, the relief of the flames’ disappearance masking the initial sting of the burn.

  But then she lit another one.

  “Bitsy,” a voice said, a hand landing on her shoulder, one that made her flinch.

  She blinked.

  “Are you okay?” Lindsey asked.

  She blinked again and then rubbed at the tears with her right hand while her left continued pressing down on her boy part. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to.”

  “Honey,” Lindsey said, sitting down and putting an arm around her. “You don’t have to apologize.”

  Bitsy tried to pull away, the press of Lindsey’s body making it impossible for her to stop acting like a boy.

  “And we’re also sorry for freaking out,” Lindsey said. “Right?”

  Liz and Gloria didn’t reply.

  “Right?” Lindsey repeated.

  “Yeah,” Gloria said.

  “Sorry,” Liz said.

  Bitsy looked at them and tried to smile, but failed.

  “Why does Misty make you dress like a girl?” Gloria asked.

  “I am a girl.”

  “But you’re—”

  “Gloria,” Lindsey said, cutting her off.

  Gloria didn’t continue.

  “I wasn’t supposed to have a boy part,” Bitsy said. “It was a mistake.”

  No one replied to that.

  “But Misty says that one day when I get my boobs they can fix it.”

  “Do you want it to be fixed?” Lindsey asked.

  “I want Misty to be happy.”

  “But what about you?”

  “What do you mean?” She rubbed her eyes again.

  “It should be up to you to decide what you want to do with your body.”

  “But I’m Misty’s,” she said.

  Again, no one replied to that.

  Misty was right. They don’t understand.


  “Are you still going to take me to her?” Bitsy asked.

  “Oh…um…yeah,” Lindsey said.

  “Lindsey,” Gloria hissed.

  Lindsey waved her away. “You said the van looked like one of these?” She picked up the phone and thumbed the password back in to bring up the picture.

  “Yeah, only the windows in back have boards over them. And curtains to hide the boards.”

  “Lindsey, we need to talk right now,” Gloria said.

  “Fine,” Lindsey said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Bitsy nodded.

  The three left the room.

  Bitsy waited, unsure what to do, fear that they were lying and wouldn’t really help her find Misty starting to appear.

  “Bitsy’s a boy!” Katie said.

  “What?” Gary asked. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. Powell found pictures of her at the house they tried to burn down. In most, her genitals are covered, but in one of them…” She didn’t even want to voice a description of what had been displayed, but then forced herself to share it.

  “Jesus!”

  “Tell me about it. We need to find her before she gets back to Misty and her father. And we need to find them because it seems likely they have this Abigail Abbott with them.”

  “I’m going to brief the lieutenant on all this right now.”

  “Okay.” She saw Owen returning with a map. “I’m going to try and pinpoint the area where they might be. Let me know if anything comes up.”

  “Will do.”

  Katie ended the call and returned to the storm chasers, who were now looking at the map that Owen had spread out.

  Nine

  Misty was worried.

  Walking toward the police cruiser was uneventful, the schoolgirl obediently complying with her instructions to stay in front of her and not tug at the collar. She also wouldn’t slow to the point where they became parallel with each other, Misty having given her a solid snap on the back with the leash as they set off to show her what would happen if she did.

  It wasn’t right.

  The schoolgirl should have tried something. A fake fall before an attack, or a sudden yank to get the leash free from Misty’s hand. Instead, she had simply walked, feet somewhat cautious given the darkness, but not to the point where it felt like a stall tactic.

  Why?

  She was not subdued yet.

  Two to three days wasn’t enough for that.