When she stepped inside the garage, she was blinded. It was pitch-black inside. Feeling along the wall, her finger found a light switch. It had two switches, and her heart stopped. One of them probably opened the garage door. She couldn’t afford to click the wrong one.

Reaching into her pocket, she found her phone, yanked it out. Her fingers damp with nerves, she couldn’t grip it well, and it slipped from her hand, crashing to the cement floor below. The loud sound reverberated through the air. Drawing in a startled breath, she froze, every muscle in her body tightening. She stayed that way for at least a minute, afraid to move.

Once she was satisfied no one was coming, she slowly lowered herself down to the ground and felt around on the floor. The pads of her fingers slid along the cold cement. When they lighted on something square, she exhaled. Closing her fingers around it, she snatched it up, feeling the screen for cracks. Thankfully because of her protective case, there weren’t any. Sliding her fingers over the screen, she turned on the flashlight. It gave her the barest of light. Still, it was enough to see a short distance in front of her. Whitney walked around the garage, letting it light her path.

Not only did these people not have Amelia, they didn’t lead very interesting lives either. Their garage was clean and organized. On the shelf on the far wall was toilet paper, paper towels, some gardening tools, clear boxes of Christmas decorations. Two bikes were propped up in the corner. A car sat idly in the center. Running a hand over her hair, Whitney grunted in frustration.

Where was her daughter?

She’d really believed she would find answers here. If not here, where?

Defeated, she slumped back into the house, turning the flashlight off. That overwhelming floral scent returned. She pressed her lips together, as she scanned the room. Her heart stopped. On the other side of the family room was a little hallway, an extra door. She’d missed that before. It could be nothing more than a closet, but she moved toward it swiftly anyway.

Whitney felt eyes on her. Chills skittered up her spine, prickling across her shoulder blades. Turning, her gaze swept the room. She half expected to see the elderly couple standing behind her. But no one was there.

When she swung back around, she saw vacant, glossy eyes, watching her every move.

Dolls. Dozens of them, filling a glass hutch that sat against the wall. Whitney couldn’t stop staring at them as she passed. She’d always hated dolls. Even as a little girl, she’d pluck their creepy, hollow eyes out so they couldn’t stare at her. These ones had all their eyes intact, and they seemed to follow her as she walked across the room.