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

away. He shrugged and shook his head. Mystery surrounded the place, and he couldn’t help but wonder what he’d stepped into when he bought it. One thing was certain, if he hadn’t bought the place, he would never have met Rayna. Then again, if he’d never met Rayna, he would never have met her evil toy friend.
    “Thanks a lot, Rayna,” he said, using a corny imitation of a favorite TV sitcom character. His silliness caused him to upset the chair and knock the plate of chips, balanced on his outstretched leg, to the floor. Swearing, he got down on his knees to pick them up. He didn’t want greasy stains on the rug. He was certain it was a silk Kashan, worth a good sum. In fact, he should probably roll it up and stash it against the wall. Next time he went to town, he’d purchase a hand-held vacuum.
    Picking up crumbled chips, brushing gently at the floor, he glanced at the underside of the desk’s center drawer. At the far back of it, something dangled. He crawled into the leg space. Sure enough, an envelope taped to the underside of the drawer had broken loose. His heart quickened. He tugged the envelope from its hiding place. No writing on the outside at all. He flipped it over, thumbed it open. One single sheet of paper inside. He unfolded the document. His breath caught in his throat. Certificate of Birth . Rayna’s birth. Her parents were listed as Raymond and Rosalie Mudwing. He stared at their names until his eyes burned. Rayna Mudwing. Thank God he had found it instead of Rayna.
    Trent folded the paper and put it back in its hiding place. He wanted to check this family out. He couldn’t turn this information over to Rayna until he knew these people were decent. And what are the odds of that, he thought, remembering the brand on Rayna’s chest.
    He carefully cleaned up the spilled potato chips, returned his plate to the kitchen, and left the house. He would walk the entire neighborhood, ask questions, and this time, he had a name; he would get answers.
    Two and a half hours later, he stood in front of a white brick building three blocks from Wounded Heart. He was hot and sweaty, but he wasn’t there to make a good impression. He walked across the pavement where a couple of old timers sat in the sun. He wondered if any of them could be the man he was looking for: Raymond Mudwing. The old woman he’d spoken to when he was canvassing the neighborhood told him Raymond and Rosalie had divorced more than twenty years ago. She had no idea where Rosalie had ended up, but mean old Raymond was sitting in an old folk’s home and God help the people who had to take care of him. Trent wished now he’d asked more questions, but why not get the story “from the horse’s mouth” as his mother always said.
    He wiped perspiration from his brow and gazed at an old guy perched on a bench. “You wouldn’t happen to know Raymond Mudwing, would you?”
    The old timer smirked at him. “Everyone knows the judge.”
    “Judge?” Trent asked.
    “Judge and jury if you ask me,” another chimed in. They laughed.
    “Inside.” The first one motioned toward the door. “Down the hall, last door on the left.”
    Trent eased open the tinted, glass door. The room was sterile white. Framed swamp scenes hung on the walls. Ironic, he thought, that Rayna grew up in Louisiana. Maybe this was a coincidence. Yeah, right, another coincidence. Closing the door behind him, he took in a breath, prepared for the traditional old-folks smell, but instead, got an overwhelming whiff of strawberry plug-ins. He rubbed his nose and started down the hall.
    Someone grabbed his arm. Hard. He twisted around.
    A tall woman with a gray bun wadded at the base of her neck, pointed to a desk holding pen and paper. Obviously, he needed to sign in. “Sorry about that. Didn’t notice.”
    The woman said nothing. She glared at him as if he’d wronged her in some way. After hurriedly jotting his name, he raised his head to ask her if that was all, but she