Page 40 of Dollhouse

I can only imagine what is happening to her, and what they might have planned.

All reasonable thought has collapsed, like shrapnel flinging itself around the inside of my skull.

She’s gone.

The driveway’s empty and my last hope at intervening shatters. Still, I tear from the car, bursting through the front door as if the men might have changed their mind and left them here for us.

But of course not.

The house is in shambles, furniture overthrown, windows busted. I walk over to the couch where their wine glasses sit, unfinished. Christmas movies on the table and ribbons on the floor where they fucking waited for us to come back to them.

If I could cry, I would. But instead, my eyes burn from the strain of taking in as much information as I can. Every detail of the room, the house. The video.

In the corner, I realize a masked man is curled up against the wall, clutching a spot on his side. My body goes numb. I stare at him for a moment as the men enter the house behind me.

The feral, bloodthirsty animal in mealmostbreaks free. Only decades of practice keeping my cool—the conditioning my father put me through to lead, to take charge— keep me from duct taping his mouth to the edge of the table and kicking his skull in.

Jesse, however, never received that same training. As soon as he spots the man trying to hide in the corner, he grabs the knife block and throws the whole damn thing across the room, hitting him square in the side of his head.

Blood coats the wall, and his father tries to hold him back.

I stalk over calmly, crouching down to his level and rip off his mask.

“Don’t kill him yet,” Dad reminds me, all caution as he can see I’m fighting to stay in control.

The man looks at me, sneering in an attempt to look strong. “Might as well, why waste time?”

A gunshot goes off behind me right before I hear Jesse being tackled by both Patrick and his dad.

He’s a great shot, Jesse. The man screams as his groin quickly soaks in blood, and I take a step back to avoid the mess he’s trying to clamor his hands over.

The sound of his screaming helps me feel slightly more in control, and I take a shaky breath. Centering. I can’t help them if I’m a fucking wreck.

“Where are they taking them?” I ask.

He doesn’t stop screaming, his hands trying to put pressure on the widening blood spot, as if it would somehow bring back the dick that Jesse destroyed.

I point my own gun at his kneecap and shoot, the man looking up in fresh shock at the serene expression I wear.

“Noah,” my dad says again.

“Where are they taking them?” I repeat.

“I don’t know, you crazy fuck!” he screams, spit flying. Whatever Bundy told his men to do if they were caught, this man cannot remember. He’s losing his shit as he starts to realize that he won't be leaving this house. Panic is all that he can feel around thepain.

That’s exactly how I want my interrogation subjects. Losing the ability to reason. Debased to the point that their allegiances falter.

“How do you not fucking know? You were taking her there.”

“We were just supposed to take her to a drop point. Another car was coming to get them. They’re probably already there. I don’t know anything else, I fucking swear toGod.”

I put a hole in his other kneecap for inspiration.

“Fuck! You psycho bastard! I told you what you asked!

“That was just to make me feel better.”

His eyes bulge as he starts to barter with me, but I put a bullet in the space between his eyes and he drops to the floor.