Cardwell Christmas Crime Scene. B.J. Daniels
come from. Trixie was in what few photographs she’d seen of her childhood, her doll locked under her arm almost like an extension of herself.
Like hers, this one looked more than thirty years old. The clothing was a little faded, the face even blanker than it had been all those years ago, but not worn and faded like Trixie had been when DJ had lost her.
DJ felt a chill. So who had left this for her?
Someone who’d had this doll—a doll that was identical to hers before Trixie’s accident. Someone who’d known there had been two identical dolls. Someone who knew this doll would be meaningful to her.
But why break in to leave it for her tucked under the covers? And why give it to her now? A life on the run had taught her one thing. The people who had left this wanted something from her. They could have mailed it with a note. Unless they had some reason to fear it could be traced back to them?
Regrettably, there was only one person she could ask, someone she hadn’t spoken to in seven years. Her father.
She took a couple of deep breaths as she walked back into the living room. She’d left the door open in case she had needed to get out fast, but now she moved to close and lock it.
With her back against the door, she stared at the apartment she’d come to love. She’d made a life for herself here, and just the thought of being forced to give it up—
She was considering what her intruder might want from her when she felt a prick and dropped the doll. Sucking on her bleeding finger, she stared down at the rag doll. The dress had gaped open in the back to expose a straight pin—and what looked like the corner of a photograph.
Carefully picking up the doll so it didn’t stick her again, she unpinned the photo and pulled it out. There were three people in the snapshot. A man and two women, one young, one older, all dark-haired. The young woman, the only one smiling, was holding a baby.
She flipped the photo over. Written in a hurried hand were the words: Your family.
What? She quickly turned the photograph back over and stared at the people pictured there.
She’d never seen any of them before, but there was something familiar about the smiling woman holding the baby. DJ realized with a start that the woman looked like her. But how was this possible if her mother had died in childbirth?
If it was true and these people were family...was it possible she was the baby in the photo? Why would her father have lied if that were the case? He knew how much she would have loved having family. He’d always said it was just the two of them. But what if that wasn’t true?
Still, she thought as she studied the photo, if it was true, wouldn’t they have contacted her? Then she realized they were contacting her now. But why wait all these years, and why do it like this?
The reason hit her hard. No one had wanted her to know the truth.
But someone had decided to tell her.
Or warn her, she thought with a shiver.
“Are you sure it’s the same doll? I thought you lost it years ago.”
DJ gripped the utilitarian standard black phone tighter as she looked through the thick Plexiglas in the prison visiting room at her father.
Walter Justice had been a big, handsome man who’d charmed his way out of trouble all his life—until it caught up with him one night when he’d gotten involved in a robbery that went badly and he ended up doing time for second-degree murder. He had aged well even in prison, and that charm was still there in the twinkle of his blue eyes, in his crooked-toothed smile, in the soft reassuring sound of his voice.
She hadn’t been able to wait until visiting day, so this was the best that could be done on short notice with the prison warden. But as surprised and pleased as her father had been to see her, he’d given the doll only a cursory look.
“It’s the same doll,” she said impatiently into the phone. “It’s just not mine. Apparently someone made two of these dolls. The clothes are handmade—just like my doll. Everything is identical except the doll isn’t mine,” she explained impatiently. “So whose is it?”
“How should I know?”
“You have to know where my doll came from,” she argued.
“DJ, you don’t really expect me to remember where we picked up a rag doll all those years ago, do you?”
“Yes, I do.” She frowned, remembering a photo she’d seen of when she was a baby. Trixie had been lying next to her. “I had it from as far back as I can remember. You should remember if someone gave it to me when I was a baby.”
He glanced away for a moment. “Look, if you think it is some kind of threat, then maybe you should disappear for a while.”
She hadn’t said she thought it was a threat. Her eyes widened in both alarm and anger. What wasn’t he telling her?
“That is all you have to say? Run? Your answer to everything.” She thought of the cheap motels, the carryout food, the constantly looking over her shoulder, afraid someone would either kill her father or take him from her. First sign of trouble—and there was always trouble when your father is a con man—and off they would go, usually in the middle of the night. She’d spent too many years on the run with him as a child. This time she wasn’t running.
“No,” she said, gripping the phone until her fingers ached. “This time I want answers. If you don’t tell me, I’ll get them on my own.”
“I only want you to be...safe.”
“Safe? So this doll is a threat.” She cursed under her breath. For years she’d had to deal with people her father had swindled or old partners he’d shortchanged or screwed over. Half the time she didn’t know who was after them or why they had to keep moving, always on the run from something. She’d felt as if she’d had a target on her back all her life because of this man. “What have you gotten me into now?”
“You can’t believe this doll is my doing.”
Why had she thought that her father, a man who lied for living, would be honest with her? Coming here had been a mistake, but then again, she’d had no one else to ask about the doll—or the photo.
She reached into her pocket. She’d come too far to turn around and leave without at least trying to get the truth out of him. “Who are these people in this photograph, and why would someone want me to have it?” she demanded as she pressed the crinkled photo against the Plexiglas between them.
DJ watched all the color drain from his face. Growing up, she’d learned to tell when he was lying. But what she saw now on his face was pain and fear.
His gaze darting away from the photo as he lowered his voice. “I don’t know what this is about, but what would it hurt if you just got out of town for a while?”
She shook her head. “Stop lying to me. You recognize these people. Tell me the truth. Is this my mother? Don’t you think I noticed that she looks like me? Am I that baby?”
“DJ, how is that possible? I told you, your mother died in childbirth.”
“Then this woman isn’t my mother?”
“On my life, you aren’t the baby in that photo.” He crisscrossed his heart. “And those people are not your family.”
She’d been so hopeful. She felt like crying as she peeled the photo off the grimy glass and dropped it back into her bag along with the doll. She’d had to leave her gun in her car and felt naked without it. “But you did recognize the people in the photo.”
He said nothing, which came as little surprise.
“I have no idea why I came here.” She met