Just what the hell is going on here?

This is the place, I'm sure. This is where Holly works. I've seen her walk in here with my own two eyes. How come nobody seems to know her?

Here's the situation: I am at a ladies underwear store, and it's about the time my girlfriend's supposed to get off work. I wanted to pick her up for a surprise one-month anniversary dinner, I'm all dressed up, got the flowers and everything, but now I'm starting to feel like an idiot. I must have asked a half dozen shopgirls already, only to get the same surprised, almost alarmed look, followed by an embarrassed apology: they have never heard of anyone called Holly, sorry. They're not good liars. I have seen them exchange glances behind my back. What on Earth are they hiding? And why?
And the dummies... geez, there's something wrong with these dummies. They're so realistic they weird me out. Only a minute ago I casually squeezed an arm and I almost screamed: it didn't feel like plastic at all, it was soft and warm, just like a flesh-and-bone arm. No kidding, these dummies get me thinking strange thoughts. Right now I'm standing next to one that's only a pair of legs, the hips ending in a flat expanse of some skin-like material. It's seated cross-legged on a glass stand, clad in black fishnets and garter belt. The detail that's got me frozen here, though, is the little starfish tattooed on its right ankle.
It looks just like Holly's.
An exact copy of her tattoo, in the very same spot.