The Devil Child

Chapter Thirty-Nine

 Polly was stress crying. That's what she called it when she became so frustrated that she couldn't hold back the onslaught of tears that forced their way from her closed eyes. It had everything to do with the loss of her sketchbook.

Polly was frustrated with herself for caring so much, because after all, the sketchbook was easily replaceable. It was a flimsy book that held few sketches, but it was the meaning behind it. She hid behind that sketchbook, like it was her shield. It was the reason she was sent to Doctor Higgins' camp. It was her creative outlet.

But Polly figured she should have been more worried about Kenzie's kidnapping, even though the purple haired girl was safe now. She figured that her energy and attention should have been on her friend. But it wasn't. And she didn't know why she felt that way, why she felt so selfish.

She was sure she had placed the sketchbook in her backpack, but it was gone. Not on her desk, not in her locker, and certainly not in her backpack.

Polly was coming apart at the seams, because even more important than that, her uncle found no traces of fingerprints on the note. It meant that despite the fact that it was an important clue into who was following her, there was nothing it could do to help. Other than what they already knew. And her uncle could find no traces of the handwriting anywhere.

So, she was right back where she started. With an expensive compact and a threatening note and no suspects. Despite what Doctor Higgins had done previously to her, Polly felt as though he hadn't written the letter, and while she knew the compact came from him, it seemed the compact stopped there. A dead-end.

Someone out there still wanted her.

And with the knowledge of her parents, that they had no idea she was out of the camp, she knew it couldn't be them writing letters to her. Whoever this person was, she had no idea who they could be, or why they were so interested in finding her.

Her uncle knocked on her bedroom door. "Are you alright, Polly?"

No, she thought to herself, I'm not alright. But she didn't know how to voice this, because her crying over a missing sketchbook and a note with no leads sounded pathetic to her. She felt like she wasn't strong enough, as if these two trivial things shouldn't make her cry.

Dramatic, she thought, you're being dramatic.

She took a deep breath. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Her voice shook, and she was sure her uncle would open the bedroom door, but he didn't. He took her answer and ran with it, leaving her behind in the empty bedroom. She was happy he had left, relieved he hadn't noticed the change in her voice. She didn't expect him to; he was a busy man. Afterall, people didn't tend to care about her, and she was used to this feeling of abandonment. She was used to crying alone.

"Well, your friend is here," her uncle's voice sounded muffled through the door, and Polly was momentarily shocked that he was still there, at her door. He hadn't left, but he also didn't know something was wrong.

The door opened, and there in the doorway stood Kenzie. She was wearing a cherry red dress that matched her lipstick and heels. She looked determined and unfazed about the situation she had recently been in. She looked lethal.

Kenzie shut the door behind her, the gleam in her eyes completely masking the worry she felt for her friend. She stepped forward, hands on her hips. "Why are you crying?"

Polly pawed at her cheeks, trying to make the tears stop. She felt hideous sitting there on the floor, crying about nothing important. A sketchbook was not important. Not in the grand scheme of things.