Rivera turned toward the open door. “Aren’t you going to come in and admire your handiwork?”

   A shadow appeared in the doorway, and a man slowly stepped inside. The person who was the real Dollmaker.

   Bruce Porter.

25

   Suddenly, everything made sense. Why Rivera’s credit card had been used to purchase the Heartbreaker lipstick. Why there hadn’t been any trace of Elissa in Rivera’s office or bedroom. Why the stones of the caretaker’s ­cottage—Porter’s home—had shrieked and wailed with such violent agony instead of Rivera’s mansion.

   Damian Rivera wasn’t the one who’d abducted Elissa and killed all those other women. It had been Bruce Porter all along. He’d just used his boss’s money, resources, credit cards, and manpower to help him do it and then cover his tracks after the fact.

   The one thing that I still didn’t understand, though, was Porter and his motivations. But it was obvious that he was the Dollmaker and that Rivera was indulging him, covering up his messes just the way Porter had covered up Rivera’s drunken disasters for so many years. It wasn’t even a real partnership as much as the two of them seemed to be codependent in a desperate, diseased way, each unable to function without the other.

   “Aw, don’t be shy, Bruce.” Rivera took another hit from his flask and stepped aside so that Porter could walk closer to me. “You certainly weren’t when you were making her look like that. You were smiling the whole time. Well, except for all the grumbling about having to dye her hair. I told you that you should have just slapped a wig on her and been done with things.”

   I shivered at the thought of the dwarf bending over me, his fingers in my hair, him touching my face, him carefully painting my lips the way he had done to so many other women before he killed them.

   Porter crossed his arms over his chest and eyed me, disappointment flashing in his pale blue gaze. “A wig wouldn’t have been the same.” He shook his head. “The dye’s not the same either. You know that they have to be natural blondes.”

   “So sorry to disappoint,” I snarked. “Although I think that I can safely say in this case that blondes don’t have more fun.”

   His eyes glittered with a hard, angry light. “I had a nice girl all picked out, and you just had to come along and ruin everything.”

   I bared my teeth at him. “What can I say? I’m an evil bitch that way.”

   “Yes, yes, you are,” a third, familiar voice called out.

   More footsteps sounded, and Hugh Tucker strolled into the cottage.

   For once, I was almost happy to see him. The vampire might be a cold-blooded killer, but he wasn’t the worst thing in the room. Not by a long shot. Rivera and Porter were tied for that dubious distinction.

   Tucker moved over to the fireplace, away from the other two men, creating a clear divide between himself and the combined sickness that was Damian Rivera and Bruce Porter. Couldn’t blame him for that. Then again, Tucker was his own special kind of disease.

   As I studied the vampire, I once again thought back over everything that had happened the past few days, and another small puzzle piece clicked into place in my mind, one that made everything else snap into focus. Red-hot anger sizzled through me, and I grabbed onto that burning heat, riding the wave of searing emotion and slowly letting it cool, congeal, and harden into an icy block of rage, hate, and determination in my heart.

   Tucker shook his head. “You just can’t leave well enough alone, can you, Gin?”

   “I could say the exact same thing about you.”

   His black eyes narrowed, but I didn’t say anything else to fill in the real meaning behind my words. After a few seconds, Tucker snapped his fingers at the other two men.

   “Leave us,” he ordered.

   Rivera straightened up to his full height and glared at the vampire, although his drunken wobble ruined his attempt to be intimidating. “You don’t get to order me around, Hugh.”

   The vampire gave him a cold, thin smile. “Oh, I do tonight, Damian, when you’ve brought such unwanted attention to the group. He’s not happy with you, letting your assistant go around town and murder all those innocent women. And he’s especially not happy that the two of you were stupid enough to get caught and he had to send men to bail you out.”

   His words made me think about those three SUVs full of men that had showed up at Rivera’s estate, the ones that had seemingly come out of nowhere, since they weren’t part of his regular security team. The alarm that I’d tripped at Porter’s cottage had signaled another alarm up at the mansion. That second alarm must have triggered some sort of Circle security protocol. That’s where all the extra men had come from. I was sure of it. But the knowledge couldn’t help me right now, so I filed the information away for another time.

   Rivera airily waved his hand, dismissing Tucker’s concerns. “Mason will get over it. He always does, just as soon as I line his pockets with more of my mother’s money.”

   Once again, my ears perked up at that name. Mason had to be their boss, the man behind this sick, twisted curtain that was the Circle. For a moment, I savored the fact that I finally—finally—had his name. In fairy tales, names often had great power, like the miller’s daughter saving her child by guessing Rumpelstiltskin’s moniker. Well, names had power in Ashland too. Names led to records, and records led to homes, bank accounts, and businesses, all of which would eventually lead to a real, live person who I could find, drag out into the light, and kill.

   But the longer I thought about it, the more the name Mason bothered me. A little warning bell chimed in the back of my mind. I’d heard that name before. I knew that I had. But where? When? Was he some Ashland mover and shaker Fletcher had mentioned to me? Some bigwig my mother had done business with? Or someone even closer and more personal than that?

   Try as I might, I couldn’t find the answer in the dregs of my mind, so I let it go—for now. Besides, at the moment, I did have the slightly more pressing problem of getting out of this cottage alive.