Bill sat in the study of his museum, and stared at the image of his daughter in the brown file that the FBI had given him. Emily lay against the bottom of the bridge, her body still. Bill looked at the next photo: a close up of the S carved into the back of her hand, still fresh and unable to scab over because she was dead. The next photo was another close up, this time of her face, with all the makeup messy as if it had been done by a child, and... oh god. With the skin product that had been rubbed all over her face, her murderer had made her look like a plastic doll. It was gruesome. Horrific. Unreal, even.

Especially in the small town of Goldwater. But for some reason, he didn't feel like he was as affected by the death as his wife. He hadn't shed a single tear. He wasn't sure why, but he felt blank. Dull, even. Susan said he was still processing, but he didn't think that was the case. Emily had been an annoying idiot anyway.

He had married Mrs. Donkin when Emily was twelve. It had been four years after the late Mr. Donkin died. But Mrs. Donkin had become Mrs. McVinch, and Emily Donkin, Emily McVinch. They were a family. The words of Ms. Haley (their therapist) herself.

That shit was nonsense. They had never been a family. Not with Emily around. She hated him the moment he walked through the front door. Understandable, people had said. Common. Normal.

How was it normal to be hated by your own stepdaughter?! Who (not to mention) is still in grade seven at elementary! It was idiotic. He wasn't going to be given attitude by a child. By the time Emily had turned 18, she and her stepfather were arguing every spare second they had. Bill McVinch found that as Emily got older, she became more difficult. He hated her. His and his wife's marriage would have been perfect without her.

Mrs. McVinch hadn't told him she had a child until they were a year into dating. By then, he was already in love with her. So he had told himself it was a bonus. A kid! A family. Turned out none of it was real.

He could hardly believe Emily had come from such a gentle, beautiful woman. That feisty, selfish, stupid girl.

Seeing her dead gave him a strange sense of pleasure. He knew he shouldn't... But he couldn't help feeling warm inside. Dead. It was what she deserved. It really was a strange, twisted feeling.

He put the printed photograph down, and back into it's folder. He frowned. He felt that he recognized it. That he recognized from something there from somewhere else. He brought it back out again, and stared at the hand of his stepdaughter. What was he missing...? The S.

His brow furrowed, he stood up with the photo in his hand. He swiftly turned around, and exited his study. He walked through to the main hall, then stopped in the room with the old families  of Goldwater. There.

On the wall behind a glass case, was a single photo. It had a father and a daughter in it, and they were both serious-looking. The little girl was holding a doll by it's arm, showing the back of the doll's hand to the camera. And on it, was an S. Bill sucked in a sharp breath. Could this be a coincidence? Surely not. 

Five minuets later, Bill pulled up at the Police Station. He rushed through the front doors, letting them slam behind him as he sprinted to the front desk. A slightly alarmed man looked back at him.

"Uh, can I - uh- help you?"

"Where's that FBI?", Bill demanded.

"What? Oh, Danni just went out to her lunch break. You want me to leave her a message?" The man frowned.

"Tell her", Bill began. "I have information on Dust. And that-"

"What? If you think you have anything, you go to James."

"What? Who the Hell is James?"

As if on queue, a man walked in. "Heard my name?"

"Yeah", said the man at the desk. "We need you. This guy thinks he has info on D."

"Oh, sure, Andrew. Come, we'll go into my office, uh..." The man who must have been called James raised his eyebrows.

"Bill. Bill McVinch."

"McVinch?", asked James. "You mean..."

"Yes. I was her father."

"Okay, Bill. You can tell me what you think you know."

Bill frowned, then shrugged, and let James lead him into his office. Once they were both seated, James leaned backward.

"So...", he began, taking something from a shelf behind him. "Fill out this, and we can start." He slid a piece of paper and a pen across the table to Bill.

Bill took the pen, and began scribbling down his name, email and address.

"Okay, Bill. Can you tell me what you think you might know?"

"Huh. Oh, yeah. I think he copies-" Bill scrambled around his pockets for the photo, bringing it out. "This guy. A doll maker, from 1870. See the S carved into the doll's hand? And the way the make up is?" Bill practically thrust the photograph in the Police officer's face. 

"Yes, I see."

"And he did that to those girls, didn't he?"

"Bill, I'm going to be completely honest with you." James leaned forward, his elbows on the table surface. "I don't think that all... this," he gestured to the photograph. "Is healthy. That it's going to help us. We need to find out who this guy is. Not where he gets his inspiration from."

Bill spluttered as he tried to express himself. "But this could help! I mean, what if he was part of the family who made the dolls? Or- or if he saw the photo? I could give you a list of everyone who's been in the museum so far, and-"

"Bill, stop", James interrupted. "Just stop."

Bill frowned, obviously not happy with being cut off, but remained silent for James to carry on. 

"I understand you're upset. That you want justice for your daughter. Hell, you might want revenge. I don't know. But you have to understand that this just ain't gonna help." James sighed deeply, and rubbed his forehead. "It kills me saying this, Bill, but I think I need you to speak to someone. This... unfortunate event has obviously taken it's toll on you. Go home, Bill. Get some rest."

James stood up, and took the paper Bill had been filling out. He scrunched it up into a ball, and threw it in the trash, then reached into his pocket and bought out a card. It had the words: Ms. Haley - psychiatrist and psychological doctor. Therapy, and social comfort. Open Mondays to Saturdays from 8am- 5pm . Bill blinked at the words, processing them. He was infuriated. This excuse for a man had thought he was upset enough to create a story? That he wanted revenge for his daughter? That he was crazy? Bill stood up, and clenched his jaw, squeezing the card into a ball inside his fist. 

"If you won't help me", he growled, " Then I'll find someone who can." He thrust the ball into the bin, and stormed out the room, leaving James by himself. James slumped down in his chair, and groaned, rubbing his temples. God, this place was a mess. 

The man held his breath as a policewoman walked by the corridor, then let it out as she passed. That was too close. Regaining his confidence, he crept along the hallway, smiling when he reached the door he had come to find in the first place. Danni Sands. He slowly opened the door to reveal a neat office with a desk and cupboards. He immediately closed the door behind him, locking it.  After making sure it had locked properly  by shaking the door, he began looking around. He swung open cupboards, throwing out papers and files. He rummaged through drawers, and searched through boxes, until finally he came across five brown files. He lay them out across the desk. Grimacing, he opened them up. Each consisted of a single girl, set up as a doll. He cringed at the gruesome photos, but took them out of the files. He had the five photos.

And that was all he needed.

Suddenly, a knock sounded at the door. "Danni?", questioned a voice.

The man froze, and scanned the room for an exit with manic in his eyes. There was a window in the room; it would have to do. The door shook as the person behind it started to become cautious. "Danni? Is everything okay in there?"

He stuffed the photos in his pocket as Andrew banged on the door. He knew Danni never locked her door, and was worried. He began kicking the door with all his might. "James! Get over here!", he called.

James jogged around the corner after hearing the panic in Andrew's voice, and saw him kicking the door. Without asking why, he began helping him. His faith was with Andrew. There was the unmistakable sound of breaking glass, then with a crash, the door gave way, and fell to the ground.

The two men stumbled through the cavity in the wall, into the room now filled with dust from the broken door.

There was no one there, but in the corner of the room, a ripped curtain flapped in the wind next to a broken window. James's boots crunched over the glass as he went over to inspect the break. Carefully, and without touching the tip, he broke off a jagged piece of glass from what remained of the window. Blood was smeared across the tip of the glass shard, and it glistened in the light as James held it up to Andrew.