Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

But this house, the Dennehys’ place, and the Hahns’ were all detailed and had certain rooms completely furnished. In the duplication of Rachel’s bedroom, a little blond doll about the size of a finger lay on a pale yellow carpet. A piece of lavender fabric was wrapped around it. A few globs of what looked like red nail polish were on the doll’s head, and it spilled over into the blond hair and onto the yellow carpet.

From earlier, when she’d peered through the glass doors at the Dennehys’ house, she knew the model accurately copied their family room — right down to the big-screen TV, sofa, coffee table, and grandfather clock. Two dolls — a brown-haired man and a blond woman — were leaning against a round breakfast table for four. It was almost as if they’d been set there temporarily — until Rachel found a better spot for them.

Natalie thought she heard something — a stair step or a floorboard creaking. She stood perfectly still and listened for a few moments. Nothing.

She moved over to yet another dollhouse, a two-story Colonial, set on a smaller table beside a bookcase against the wall. She didn’t recognize the house. But two bedrooms on the second floor, the kitchen, and the pantry were painstakingly furnished. There was a man doll in the open closet of the bigger bedroom and a woman doll in the closet of the smaller bedroom. Each one had been dotted with that same crimson color polish. A third doll — it looked like it was supposed to be a girl — was on the pantry floor. It too was marked with red nail polish. Natalie couldn’t help thinking it looked like a replication of a cul-de-sac-killing crime scene. “This is weird as shit,” she murmured to herself.

On the bookcase, along with stacks of dollhouse furniture in their cartons, there was another little model. It looked like a mock-up some set designer might have created in preparation for a play. It resembled a hotel room with a queen bed, TV, table, and chairs — and another little doll on the floor. This one was of a man, and he was naked.

Natalie picked it up and studied it.

“Put that down,” someone whispered.

Startled, she swiveled around and saw Rachel standing in the doorway. She had a gun pointed at her.

A hand over her heart, Natalie stared at her. She started to say something, but when she opened her mouth to talk, the words wouldn’t come out. She just shook her head.

“I thought you were a prowler,” Rachel said. She took a step back, and then set the gun down on the worktable. “Are you deaf or something? I told you to put down the doll.”

“What is it?” Natalie asked.

“It’s for a special project. Put the doll back where you found it. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Okay, okay, Jesus. .” Natalie set the doll back inside the little replica of a hotel room.

Rachel was still standing on the other side of the doorway. “Now, get away from my models. I don’t want them ruined. . ” She nodded toward the other corner of the room, where there was a tall cabinet.

Frowning, Natalie did what she was told. “I had no intention of ruining your stupid dollhouses,” she grumbled. “Now, just let me out of here, and I’ll—”

“But they would have been ruined,” Rachel interrupted. She reached back for something on the workbench behind her. “Your blood would have gotten all over them.”

“What?” Natalie murmured.

All at once, Rachel rushed toward her, raising the crowbar in the air.

Screaming, Natalie backed into the cabinet. The door opened and several small bottles of model paint fell out. They hit her shoulders and then clattered onto the cement floor. Rachel was practically on top of her. Natalie put her arm out, but it was too late. She felt the crowbar slam against her skull — just above her left eye.

She let out a frail cry and reeled back against the cabinet. More paint bottles fell out and crashed to the floor. She felt her legs giving out under her.

“This is just more work for me,” Rachel grumbled. “Now I have to make a doll for you.”

Natalie stared at her — until blood oozed into her eye.

She thought of that red nail polish.

She caught a glimpse of Rachel raising the crowbar in the air again. But then everything went out of focus. Natalie tried to hold herself up by leaning against the cabinet. Somehow, she still thought she could make it out of that room if she just kept standing.

But she heard Rachel grunt — and then a loud pop.

It was the sound of her skull cracking.

She thanked God the receptionist was a temp. If it was Juliet, the usual receptionist, then she would have to hear her condolences and explain that she was feeling better — and saner — than she’d been yesterday at the funeral. She probably would have gotten emotional and cried. And Juliet would have called this coworker or that coworker of Jeff’s so they could give their condolences, and the whole damn thing would have gone on for an hour.

All she wanted to do was pick up the package Jeff had bought for his mistress, and then sneak out of there.

At the reception desk just inside the glass double doors to Kendall Pharmaceuticals, the temp explained that Peter had to run an errand. But yes, indeed, he’d left a package for her. She reached under the desk and then pulled out a large UPS box — about two by two feet. She set it on the desktop. “It’s not too heavy,” she said. “But if you’d like some help carrying it out, I can get someone. . ”

Molly carefully lifted the box to get a feel for the weight. It was bulky, but weighed only about five pounds. “No, that’s all right,” she said. “Thank you.”

“I heard about your husband, Mrs. Dennehy,” the receptionist said, getting to her feet. She opened one of the glass doors for Molly. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” she said again, working up a smile as she peered at her over the top of the box. She made her way to the elevator, and managed to press the Down button. The package felt a bit heavier and more awkward as she waited for the elevator to arrive. She couldn’t help remembering the last time she was here, when Jeff’s mistress had called to taunt her — just hours before his death.

The elevator finally arrived, and she stepped aboard. It was crowded and stopped five times before she finally made it down to the lobby. As she walked to the garage elevators, Molly was sweating, and she felt a little dizzy. Some woman on a cell phone bumped into her and almost knocked the box out of her hands. Molly wanted to scream at her to watch where she was going, but she said nothing. The woman moved on without even looking at her, not a break in her conversation.

By the time Molly stepped off at Parking Level D (for Dalmatian , the sign said, with a photo of the spotted dog), she was so upset and sick that she just wanted to drop the box on the floor and kick it all the way to her car. But even though her arms ached, she carried the package to her car. She heard her own footsteps on the concrete, echoing in the dark, winding garage. In the distance — perhaps a level or two levels up — someone’s tires squealed as they turned the corners from one ramp to another.

Molly set the box down on the hood of her Saturn and caught her breath.

She couldn’t wait until she got home. She had to see what Jeff had secretly picked up while antique shopping with his mistress in La Conner last month. Molly took her keys out of her purse and ran one across the box’s taped top flaps.

But she heard something that made her stop. It seemed to come from the elevator alcove, but an SUV parked in the next row blocked her view. She heard a woman snickering. The laugh was kind of husky and scratchy.