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

of the gunshot shattering the bedroom window, her plea for him not to call the cops. Something wasn’t right.
    First of all, the picture was weird. Rayna wasn’t just sitting in the corner. To Trent she looked as though she huddled there—as if she was scared, about to burst into tears. She hadn’t commented on her actual expression—only the doll. He wondered if she’d even noticed that she wasn’t smiling, that her fingers were clenched and her arms were wrapped tightly around her doll. He wondered if she chose to ignore her expression and not to say the words aloud. To Trent, she looked frightened, but who would take a picture of a frightened child? Nothing made sense.
    And the gunshot. Could it have to do with her family and her search for them? He wished he’d never promised to keep the gunshot a secret. He wouldn’t make such a promise again. In fact, he needed to document everything so he could give the cops a date if the need arose, the exact time and all the details. He clicked his pen a couple of times while he thought, then began to jot some notes, everything he could remember about the picture, the gun shot, Louis. It was no coincidence that odd things started happening only after Rayna came to town.
    He ran his hand roughly across his face. All signs pointed to Rayna being abused. He’d always heard if someone couldn’t remember their childhood, had blocked it out completely, then it was a sign of something horrible that they didn’t want to remember. What kind of doors were they opening? How would Rayna react when she learned the details of her past? Would she go bonkers and need therapy for years? How would he handle it? How would he ever be able to help her through childhood horrors if he had to? Right now he felt totally inadequate.
    He still believed strongly that he should sell the house and everything in it, and get back to Texas. He couldn’t do that though. She’d told him loudly and clearly, she’d never forgive him if he stood in the way of her search. Of course, he could sell everything and leave her behind, but he had a feeling he’d never forget Rayna, never be able to live without her. Besides that, what kind of man would he be to leave a woman when she was in need of protection?
    “Guess I’m in it for the long haul,” he mumbled, tossing the pen and clipboard onto the sofa.
    He turned out the overhead light and sat down in a chair, resting his head on the high padded back. The lamp in the corner of the room offered a dim, seductive glow. Who would want Rayna dead and why? What if he couldn’t protect her? What if something happened to her? If he called the police, would they think he was nuts? Of course not. He’d tell them everything he knew about her and all that had happened: the mysterious picture of Rayna with the doll, the gun shot, and all about Louis showing up to collect free garbage. Tomorrow, he’d dig the bullet out of the wall and he’d talk to Rayna again about reporting the shooting. He was satisfied with his decision. In a few minutes, his eyes shuttered closed. He hovered on the edge of dreamland when a loud thump jerked him fully awake. It came from the porch. Someone was out there.
    He sat still, held his breath, and listened. Complete silence. He eased from the chair and moved toward the front of the room, stopped, listened again. Nothing. He braced himself for a fight and yanked the door open. A large box sat flush against the threshold. He’d bought enough boots to know it was probably a boot box wrapped in brown paper. With a black marker, someone had printed, “ Rayna: this is for you .”
    “Not if I can help it,” he whispered. He reached down to pick up the box, stopped himself. She’d never forgive him if he opened it, destroyed it, hid it from her. He straightened and stared at the crudely wrapped package for a brief moment before he shut the door. Nothing he could do. He’d let her open it, then help her deal with the consequences.
    “It