CHAPTER FOURTEEN
In contrast to my family’s mansion, Matilda Foster’s house was tiny. It was about two-stories high, but don’t let that fool you, because it still felt small even with two floors. That was because her house was packed. The living room had a couch, several bookshelves, and even more chairs, while the walls of every room were covered with shelves full of old dolls. Dolls upon dolls, from nearly every decade of the 20th century, stood in rows on the walls, looking like soldiers awaiting orders from their general to march into battle.
Even though I had seen the dolls before on my last trip here, I still couldn’t help but stare at them as I followed Matilda up the stairs to the second floor of her mansion. Some of the dolls were incredibly realistic, to the point where I almos
