9. Rae

I stareat the Galloway House in the morning light. The chain-link fence stretches up, full of holes and metal. Keeping people out. Keeping someone inside. Crave.

I take a sip of my mint coffee. A lump—like curdled milk—catches on my tongue. I gag and accidentally swallow the lump before I can spit it out. I go back through the employee door and dump the rest of my coffee into the nearest trash can.

I pass Ned in the hallway.

"Hey," he says.

I poke his side teasingly. "Can I wait in your office?" I ask. "My shift doesn't start for a while."

He waves me back. "Go for it."

As soon as I'm in his office alone, I scan his desk. A pile of papers. A globe paperweight. No keys. My chest thuds with adrenaline. Where should I put Ned's key to the Galloway House's padlock?

I open up his desk drawer and stuff it inside. The office door opens, and I slam myself back into my seat and huff through my nostrils. Ned lifts his brows.

I'm not out of breath from doing something bad,I tell myself. I'm just?—

"You okay, beautiful?" Ned asks.

"Sorry—I was just playing with myself," I blurt out. His cheeks turn red. "Sometimes it helps me feel better."

"You're right," he says. "We should make you feel better." His embarrassment melts away, turning into hunger. "The boutique will be fine. Don't worry about it."

"You're so nice," I whimper.

He kneels down between my legs.

Afterward, I call out of my shift and leave the mall, then head to the Pahrump Police Station. As the front desk secretary helps me set up an appointment with the sheriff, the urge to do something more flickers inside of me. It's a fast pulse, like my insides are vibrating, waiting for my next move.

A man with peppered gray hair struts through the office. A small group of younger men follow him. He moves past me, heading toward the exit.

"Sheriff?" I ask. The gray-haired man swings around. "Can I talk to you, sir?"

He dismisses the men and leans on the counter beside me. He ogles me up and down. I pretend not to notice.

"What can I do for you, young lady?" he asks.

I curl my fists at my sides. "Young lady" sounds so much like "little girl," and yet it feels wrong coming from him. Condescending. Like the sheriff thinks he's such a big man for helping a weak woman.

Crave made it clear that he thinks he's better than me, but for some reason, I don't find it irritating when he calls me "little girl." Instead, it arouses me. If a little girl can get a killer's attention, then what else can I do to him?

Instead of letting the sheriff's words get to me, I play into it, shrinking my shoulders meekly so the sheriff feels extra manly.

"I heard that you worked here during the Michael and Miranda Hall murders," I say. "I'm working on a college project. Could I ask you a few questions about it?"

His expression frosts over with vacancy, like I'm not in front of him anymore.

"You mean the murder-suicide," he says dryly.

Of course he would say that.

"What if it wasn't a murder-suicide?" I ask, dropping the shy girl act. "Why would Michael Hall drug and kill himself when?—"

"I imagine that if you kill your wife, you may have a lot of guilt," the sheriff interrupts. "I imagine you'd want to numb that pain."

"True," I say quickly. "But what if he was drugged by someone else? What if it was a setup to make it look like a murder-suicide?"

He blinks. "Perhaps the overdose was taking too long."

He's got the excuses lined up already. Still, I'm determined.

"But the autopsy information said that there wasn't enough in his system to overdose. There was only enough to keep him immobile, as if someone wanted him to comply with their orders. As if someone else was there, controlling the situation."

My knees subtly shake, so full of pent-up irritation that I can barely contain myself. I clench my jaw. What if the sheriff knows who truly murdered my father? What if he's covering up for one of his men? What if the sheriff is my father's murderer?

"I'm not making this up, and you know it," I say.

The sheriff takes a deep breath, filling himself with patience.

"I know you worked on the case," I say, enunciating every word so he knows what I'm actually saying: I know you're trying to cover up that none of your men know shit about what really happened. "And I know you worked hard to get to your position as sheriff too."

He looks down his nose at me, emphasizing our height difference. I straighten, broadening my shoulders, meeting his icy gaze. I narrow my eyes too, warning him.

"You're not the first kid to come in here making accusations like that," he says.

Kid?"I never made any accusations?—"

"Ma'am, it was ruled a murder-suicide. Michael Hall hung his wife, then he drugged and shot himself. There was a suicide note. There's not much else to determine about that." He clicks his tongue. "He was an insecure man."

I shake my head. It's too easy, and he must see that. "But what if the suicide note was a setup too?"

He forces a laugh, then turns toward the entrance. "You're from Vegas, aren't you?"

"Yes, but?—"

"You're all about the hustle."

"What—"

"You want to make a quick buck by digging up whatever grief you can find."

My knuckles turn white. "I'm doing this for school?—"

"Yeah, yeah," he scoffs. "You're doing it for an A. You care nothing about the Hall family." He steps toward the exit, and I follow after him. He frowns. "Don't go digging where you don't belong. The Halls need rest. I do too."

"I'll see you at the appointment then," I say.

He stops in his tracks.

"Appointment?" he says. He and the secretary exchange a silent look, and the secretary nods. "Right." He dips his chin at me. "See you then."

The building doors close behind him. I stand frozen in the lobby. What the hell just happened?

Did he just silently tell his secretary to cancel my appointment?

He has to be covering it up. That's the only way to explain everything that happened.

I dash over to the front desk. "I've still got an appointment, right?"

"Yes, ma'am," the secretary says.

"The sheriff didn't just tell you to cancel it?"

"Your appointment is still on the books." She gestures to the computer screen. I can't see anything though.

"He can still cancel it later," I say.

The phone rings, and the secretary holds up a hand, asking me to wait. I don't. There's no reason to stay right now.

This obsession I have with my father's maybe-murder is ridiculous. It's not like I can change the past. Even when I prove it to my mother—that I didn't come from a murderous father—it won't do anything besides give me the chance to say I told you so.

And you think a little girl like you is going to find this killer? Crave had asked.

My skin flushes with heat as the ghost of his hand tangles in my hair. He was brutal and unrelenting, and he never gave me a chance to think. To feel. To plan. For once, I had to let go.

I can't let Crave control me like that. I have to use him to my advantage. And fucking him like I actually want him won't help me blackmail him.

At the apartment, restless energy stirs inside of me, bouncing around like bolts of electricity.

I have to do something. I have to remind myself that I am in control.

I open a dating app and find a local with an average face.

Are you free?I text. I want to fuck now.

What's your address?he responds.

I switch on the surveillance cameras and double-check that the red recording lights are off. Even if I'm the one doing the stealing, you can never be too careful about what you catch on film. If this hookup tries to mess with me, I'll have proof. And with enough editing, I'll have proof of my innocence.

A knock pounds my door, and as soon as I open it, the hookup rushes inside, smacking his lips to mine. I close the door behind him and flip off the lights—it's the best way to disorient them—then I shove my tongue into his mouth. The taste of toothpaste and bubblegum swishes between my lips.

In the bedroom, I pull at his belt buckle. His cock bounces free, hard and ready for me.

"Fuck me," I demand.

He complies. They always do. They're so simple.

As his cock enters me, I grab his ass, his wallet thick in his back pocket. I don't need the money, but there's a thrill inside of me when I find something I can take. A picture. Car keys. A stack of cash. A card. It's like gaining physical strength. And even if he doesn't have cash, I can always use one of his debit cards to fill up my gas tank or get a few groceries. They never notice a charge like that.

I pull us down to the bed. The hookup moves me to the edge of the mattress so he can fuck me better, and I imagine Crave sitting in the corner of the room. Watching me. Judging me. Stroking his cock as he watches the hookup stuff my pussy. Crave's dark and knowing eyes fixed on me, like he can peel back my skin and taste the layers underneath. He unsettles me, and yet, at the same time, he makes me feel so fucking alive.

I grab the hookup's hand, slapping both of our hands onto my tits. The crash of skin against skin dissipates. The hookup curls his head to the side.

"You're into that?" he asks.

"Lots of people like being spanked," I say coyly.

He rubs his face. I grin. He's probably hooked up a lot, but not with someone like me.

"Well." He motions to the side. "Flip over then."

I bat my eyelashes playfully, but a tingly sensation spreads across my arms and legs. I like getting my ass spanked—who wouldn't?—but the hookup is acting so hesitant, and I know it won't be enough. He must think the only place he can righteously spank me is my ass.

I flip over to my hands and knees anyway.

"Hit me," I demand. "Hard."

His cock enters me, then his palm meets my ass cheeks, soft, then again, softer. So rhythmic, it's almost comical. My mind drifts in boredom, and I'm not inside myself anymore.

I'm underneath Crave while he chokes me from behind.

Be a good little fuck hole and take me,he had said.

The fuzzy images of a crowd of people surround us, like we're performing a ritual on a sacred night. Candles flicker at the edges, illuminating their faces, but I can't see anyone's expression. There's no clear detail. There's only Crave, hidden inside of his bondage mask.

A fingertip rolls down my spine. I shiver back to reality. The hookup stops.

"Are you okay?" he asks. "Was I too hard?"

"Don't stop," I say.

I moan, and the hookup's pace increases. The same rhythm. A thrust, then a spank. Thrust. Spank. Switch sides and repeat. My head controls the situation again, transporting me back to the vision with Crave. Now I have no interest in even stealing from this hookup. I'm distracted. I want something else.

Your mind is on Crave because you need to ask him for help,I tell myself. He'll have better luck with the police, and with his background, he'll be able to steal from the police department better than you can.

These are excuses though. They're not the real reason I'm bored of this monotonous hookup right now.

I want something more. Something harder. Something rougher. Something that doesn't let me think. Something that rips every thought and calculated action out of my brain until I'm merely a sexual object being used for pleasure.

I want Crave.