Free The Last Daughter (Tales of the Scrimshaw Doll) by Jessica Ferguson Page B

give him half an hour more.
    ****
    Trent rubbed his chin over and over again, eyeing the homes from the north window of his bedroom. Most of them looked like they were built during the nineteen forties or fifties. Surely someone around knew the original owners of Wounded Heart. The few home-owners he’d talked with knew nothing about his recent purchase or anyone who had lived there. They were either new to the neighborhood or not interested in helping him. During the next few days, he’d tackle the other side of the street. Maybe his approach didn’t work. Perhaps he sounded too inquisitive when he should be more neighborly. A knock at the open bedroom door interrupted his thoughts. He turned to face Rayna. She stood, the doll in her arms. She looked hesitant, and he hated how they’d grown apart. All because of that doll. He rubbed his head, expecting a dagger of pain. Nothing happened. He smiled at her.
    “I’m breaking for lunch, want to join me?”
    Trent bit his tongue. “No thanks. I’m not very hungry. I think I’ll do a little more work in here, then run over to the hardware store for some more masking tape. Want to go with me?”
    “No, I may take a nap after lunch. I didn’t sleep well last night.”
    He wanted to say he wasn’t surprised, that he wouldn’t be able to sleep either with that creepy doll staring at him. He didn’t dare. “Okay. Maybe we’ll be on the same page around dinner time.” He tried to grin, but the sight of her standing there holding her doll sent shivers through him.
    “Okay.” She walked away.
    “Rayna?” he called.
    She returned to look at him. Her face was so sad, he wanted to take it in both hands and kiss her until joy bubbled in her laughter and glistened in her eyes. He wanted to hold her until she returned to the girl he’d met—fun, confident, secure in who she was, even if she didn’t know who she was. He wanted the real Rayna—pre-Louis, pre-gunshot and definitely pre-Tiva,
    “Do you need anything? I can run any errands you have.”
    She shook her head. “Don’t need a thing. Thanks though.”
    He listened to her footsteps skip down the stairs. From the study on the second floor, he heard kitchen sounds. Cabinet doors opened, shut. Water turned on and off. The fridge door opened, closed. When her steps retreated up the stairs to her third floor room for a nap, he took a deep breath, put his paperwork aside, and went down to the kitchen to scrounge something to fill his own growling stomach. He was surprised to find a dish on the counter. Removing the paper towel from the top, he saw that Rayna had stacked him a ham and cheese sandwich with all the fixings—lettuce, tomato, pickles and spicy mustard—just the way he liked it. A pile of potato chips were on one side of the plate. He marveled that she had known he would enter the kitchen as soon as she left. He felt sad, guilty that he had let her eat alone—even though she hadn’t really been alone. She’d had Tiva. She always had Tiva. Their entire situation turned his stomach, but not enough to walk away from the sandwich she’d prepared. He took his plate and bottled water back to the upstairs study. He’d work while he ate.
    Sitting back in the old wooden office chair, he munched his food and perused paperwork from one of the files. Why on earth would anyone leave their files and important papers behind? Everything belonged to WH Incorporated, and seemed to deal with small businesses. WH. Did that stand for Wounded Heart?
    He always wondered why heirs walked away from their family’s belongings. Sometimes it looked as if they just disappeared while working one day. Like now. Maybe this guy got fed up with life and took off, started over. Trent certainly understood that feeling. Since that ugly doll showed up, he felt more and more like leaving. But he wouldn’t. He’d stick it out to the end. He wouldn’t walk away until Rayna was completely satisfied about who she was and why she was given