The Dollmaker's Son | lrh ✔️

Two

The most peculiar thing about Presley was that whenever a crime was committed, our police department never looked too far into it. They just assumed that since it was a small town, the impact was small, and the consequences weren't dire.

Since my father was the head of the biggest force in Presley, people treated me like I was glass. As if by being nice to me, their possessions had insurnace for life. I wished that was the case.

It was 3am on a Tuesday morning when I heard it. The sound of metal against metal, the familiar glint of an expensive paint job falling to the floor. I cracked my window open and saw a masked figure keying somebody's car.

I almost fled down the stairs, threw the door open, and yelled at them to stop, but I heard frantic stumbling and the slam of a car door being pulled shut.

Not to mention the sound of an engine switching on, with a skeleton key wedged in the ignition.

It was too late for me to chase them, so I ran out of the house in a bathrobe and some awful fluffy penguin slippers. I ran across my driveway and up another house's gravel path, and I ran to their front door, fighting to catch my breath.

I knocked and I knocked and I knocked. It was 3am, and I knew I was being annoying, but I didn't care. Somebody's car had just been stolen. I was a witness, and a useless one at that; I had no idea what the person looked like.

The person who wrenched the front door open was tired, probably as exhausted as I was. Their sullen blue eyes matched the bags underneath, and they landed on me.

I wanted to say hi, or even just to scream at them what happened, but I couldn't. Their eyes bore into me, and I was at a complete loss for words.

I started stammering, piecing together the events of what happened, but to no avail. The person with the quiffed blonde hair and crystal blues just stared at me.

I waited for them to say something. But the more I looked, the more I could see them in the cracked darkness- the more I began to understand why they couldn't.

Because in the moon's pale light, a criss-crossed pattern of black thread greeted me. The boy couldn't speak. His mouth was sewn together, but I didn't need for him to tell me who he was- I already knew.

He was Luke Hemmings. And he couldn't speak to me, or ask me what happened to his car, because his lips were threaded shut.