12. Rae

The next day,I stow my purse in the boutique break room, then I meet Penny in the food court. My shift doesn't start for a while, which is a good thing. My brain is filled with fog from last night's chaos. A bubbly, know-it-all teenager will distract me from those thoughts…maybe.

"You're ten minutes late," Penny says. "We barely have enough time to go over everything."

"Sorry," I mumble. "I was?—"

Penny launches into an explanation about the town's crime history. I try to listen, but my thoughts wander. I think about what Crave said: Watching someone die on the inside. They'll disintegrate before your eyes, giving you their power.

I've always liked power.

I imagine killing Penny with the poison, telling her it's an electrolyte mix. Could I take her life?

No.I couldn't. I'm not a killer, and besides, most criminals get caught, and I don't think my mother could save me from prison.

Penny drones on, and I gawk at the surveillance cameras on the ceiling of the mall. Black orbs with red lights, like scorpions waiting for the right time to strike.

I'm almost positive Crave has access to the cameras in my house, and I get this feeling that Crave has been watching me for a long time, longer than when I first laid eyes on his masked face in the Galloway House.

It's not like Crave has anything on me. Ned doesn't know that I sometimes hook up with strangers, but it's not like Ned has any right to be mad about it. He eats me out and buys me lunch sometimes. We're not in a relationship.

I should do something about the cameras though. Change my password. Uninstall them. Something.

I know I won't do anything.

Maybe I like knowing that Crave is watching me.

Jerking off to me.

Examining me.

I shake myself out of those thoughts; Penny doesn't notice me zoning out, but I need to focus. Crave isn't my main concern; my father's murder is.

"So you've done everything?" I interrupt her.

She raises a brow. "What do you mean?"

"You've interviewed everyone. You've talked to random people. You've looked at the evidence."

"Well"—she shrugs—"I haven't looked at the evidence. My dad won't let me. But I have?—"

She explodes into a list of the people she's interviewed. I can't concentrate though.

If she's already done everything, then what can we do now?

Ifthe killer is still around on the anniversary of these murders, then he'll want to revisit his victory site, right? That's what the TV shows and books say. He'll possibly want to relive it too.

"What if we do something on the thirteenth?" I ask.

She wrinkles her nose. "Like what?"

I tap my lips and scan the room. A group of teenagers laughs as they go into the antique store.

I turn back to Penny. "A party."

"A party?"

"Hear me out." I put a hand on my chest. "What if we host a party on the thirteenth to bring people into the house? We can say it's a haunted house or something, and talk about the murder-suicides and our theories. If the murderer is still around, he'll want to be there, right? To see the power his legacy still holds over the town. He may even want to correct us."

My mind buzzes forward. It's a crazy idea. Crave will have to attend the party to see what we do and say in his territory. And maybe, just maybe, I'll get to see him without his mask.

My heart thuds in my chest, my eyes wild. At some messed-up point, this stopped being about my father and started being about Crave.

It's about both of them, I tell myself. My father and Crave. They're intertwined. Crave represents the house, and that's where my father was killed.

"Why didn't I think of that?" Penny smacks her head. "The killer would be too proud to let it go, especially if we taunt them with incorrect details. Most serial killers are overly confident and proud. They wouldn't let us say the wrong thing."

"Exactly!" I grab her hands, clutching them in excitement. "We could set up the decorations like the murders. It would add authenticity and bring people in?—"

"And the murderer would want to act it out!"

"What if we act it out?" I shout. "We can show the way we think it happened. Whoever it is, they'll be too proud to sit back and let us dictate their victory. They'd have to step in."

"I can interview more people!"

"I can too," I say. "I'm not that good at it, but I always get these feelings about people. And if I get an instinct, you can interview them too?—"

"And the killer will have some sort of signal, right? A hint that leads us to the truth."

"Exactly!"

Penny spirals into ideas for the party, and I take mental notes of the things we need to do: clean, decorate, invite.

And make sure Ned is on board.

A sliver of wonder throbs inside of me, burrowing into my waist like a tick. If Crave shows up without his mask—if we taunt him, and he's the killer—will he expose himself?

Crave could be my father's killer, or Crave can help us figure out the truth. If Penny and I dress up like victims of the murders, we could get Crave to get dressed up too. He could even come in his mask. No one would suspect him. He could use his expertise to help me find the killer.

An arm wraps around my shoulders. I startle.

"Hey, beautiful," Ned says. He nods to his niece. "Hey, Penny."

"I'm beautiful too, thanks," she says.

"Of course you are." He gives her a quick hug. "What are you two scheming up now?"

"It's not a scheme. It's a plan, actually," Penny corrects. Then she tells him our idea, leaving out the location of the party. Ned smiles patiently. He must already know what we're going to ask him. My body goes rigid as old doubts about Ned come rushing back.

What if Ned's patience is an act? A way to trick people into thinking he's innocent?

What if Ned is my father's killer?

What if Ned is Crave?

Crave and Ned are around the same height, but they smell different. They have similar body shapes, sure, but Ned wouldn't do those things. He's the kind of person who sets up rodent repellents instead of lethal traps.

But Ned has never let me near his cock. He always claims it's about my pleasure. Could he be hiding piercings down there?

"Well…" Penny elbows me. "Ask him."

"Ask me what?" Ned asks.

I scan Ned's face. His expression is well kept, like he knows he belongs here. As if he owns this mall, this town, and everyone in it.

A killer would be that confident too.

A ball of tension forms at the base of my spine, and I spit out the words before I can reason with myself. "Can we host the party at the Galloway House? We'll clean it. Decorate it. Make sure it's safe. But we still need your approval."

His nostrils flare slightly, letting out some air. "That place is a wreck."

"Come on," Penny says. "We'll clean it."

"We'll take care of everything," I add. "We just need the key to the padlock and your trust in us."

Ned inspects me, his blue eyes full of trepidation and longing. He rubs the back of his neck like he wants to help us, even if he knows he shouldn't.

"Uncle Ned," Penny whines.

"Shouldn't we let it go?" he asks. "That stuff happened a long time ago."

I gnaw on my tongue. I should tell Ned about my connection to the case, and maybe even ask him to help me retrieve evidence from the police department, but I don't want Penny to know that Michael Hall is my father. I want this to be about the crime; that way, she'll be more willing to help me.

But we need Ned's approval to do this. It won't work without him.

And I need to see Crave in the light, even if he's still wearing a mask.

"This could really help the podcast," I say.

"The truth deserves to be told," Penny says.

Ned studies me, then Penny. She must be like a daughter to him. Her father—his brother—is a cop, and even she wants to find out the truth.

Ned smiles. "All right."

"Really?" Penny asks.

"Really," he says. He winks at us. "I knew you two would be trouble."

"Good things are always trouble," I tease.

"We have a lot of planning to do," Penny says. She turns back to me. "Let's meet again. When do you work? I can meet you here before or after your shifts."

We figure out tomorrow's meeting, then Penny gives Ned a hug and bounds toward the exit. I race after Ned, tapping on his shoulder before he gets to his office. I clench my jaw until my cheeks redden, feigning embarrassment.

"Penny's father is a police officer, right?" I ask.

"Yeah, why?" Ned says.

"Do you think your brother would let me have a DNA sample from the Michael Hall case?"

Ned's lips pinch together. Crave is just messing with your head, my brain reasons, but I can't help it; the words are already out there.

"I just want to make sure, you know?" I explain. "A paternity test or whatever."

"A paternity test?"

His eyes trail off, studying the gray tile. Melancholy pulls down his lips, like he finally understands why I'm so obsessed with this case. Why I can't let my father be a killer. Why I have to prove my mother wrong, or I'll never forgive myself.

"And you don't want to ask Penny?" he confirms.

I shake my head. "She doesn't need to know about my reasons for all of this."

His chin bobs, his eyes glossy with thought. "My brother doesn't really do things like that, but I'll see what I can do."

"Are you sure? I don't want to impose," I say, regurgitating the line I know is expected of me.

Ned takes my hand. "You deserve to know."

I blink, emptiness creeping up my chest. I squeeze his hand back, then let my hands fall to my sides.

"You're too kind," I say with a flat voice.

It's true though; Ned is too kind. I never trust people who are nice. There's always another intention they're hiding beneath the surface. I know, because that's what I do too. And it's probably why I like Crave. He's a killer. He lets his violence embrace every word and action. You know exactly what to expect. On the other hand, you never know when a nice person will turn on you.

"Anyway, I've got to go check on the food court," Ned says.

"Work. That thing. Right," I joke.

"I'll catch you later. I'll talk to my brother and let you know."

"You're the best."

For the second time today, I wonder about Ned. The idea doesn't make sense at all, but I can't stop myself from wondering. Could Ned be Crave?

They're the same height. And Ned could change his voice under the mask. But the cock piercings don't add up. Ned hides his dick, sure, always putting his sexual attention on me, but I'm certain he would never do something like that to his genitals.

Instead of heading to the boutique, I wander inside of the antique store. Dust floats in the air, the stale scent of old books swaddling me in their perfume. Rusted gadgets. Tin cigarette cases. Picture frames. Used decks of cards from the casinos. Even a vintage chicken ranch sign.

I don't know what I'm doing here though. Am I shopping for props? Decorations?

A white nightgown, lined with lace, hangs from the top of a booth. A pink bow embellishes the neck, with little flowers embroidered into the lining. I trace my fingers over the nightgown.

My mind fills with the leaked crime scene photos.

Miranda Hall hanging in the noose. Blood leaking down her thighs. Her nightgown had little pink flowers too.

This nightgown could have been hers.

I can wear the nightgown and pretend to be the strangled wife, Miranda Hall. My fingertips tremble over the bow. It's a simple material reminiscent of that time. When things were softer, kinder.

Or maybe they weren't.

"Ain't you supposed to be at the boutique right now?" a hoarse Southern voice asks.

I swing around. The mall cop ogles me. A clean, soapy scent, heavy with cologne, permeates from him, like he's covering up his gym stink. His round eyes narrow at me like I'm the scum under his gym shoes. His tongue runs across his bottom lip, reminding me of a hissing snake. My neck stiffens.

The fucking creep.

"My shift doesn't start for another hour," I say. It's a lie—it starts in ten minutes—but he doesn't need to know that. "I didn't know mall cops also kept tabs on the employees."

"I keep tabs for Ned," he mutters. "He's a good man, and I know you ain't faithful to him. I've seen your hookup profile."

I huff through my nostrils. Like that matters. Everyone has a hookup profile these days; the mall cop is just making an educated guess. And even if he has seen my hookup profile and I haven't seen his, then that means I denied his sexual advances. The mall cop is jealous.

"Ned knows too," I lie.

"That so?" he says. "Makes sense. Ned knows a child like you is an easy fix then."

A child like me?

I ball my fists. The mall cop is older than me, yes, but I'm not a child. I'm a fucking adult. I know what I'm doing, and I own my mistakes. It's part of why I was so irritated by my mother's reaction when I was fired. You're just like him, she had said, as if my dead father was the sole reason for blame, when she had watched me steal from guests for years before I was caught.

At the end of the day, this mall cop—a mall cop, not even a real police officer—is in his forties, working at the mall. He's the one who's no better than a child. A teenager could get his job.

"Ned would fire you if I asked him to," I say.

"Do it then," he says. His eye twitches, almost like he's trying to wink, and I scowl in disgust. "Get me fired, and I'll make sure he knows about RaeRae69."

I roll my eyes, though inside, my stomach is rolling. That is my username.

I don't know if Ned would fire the mall cop for me. It's not like I have proof that the mall cop is harassing me—my dumb ass left my purse in the boutique break room—but the mall cop could have screenshots of my profile. If he knows my username, there's a good chance that he has real proof of my escapades.

Would that bother Ned?

No. Ned wouldn't accuse me of anything; he knows we're not dating.

And yet I wouldn't be surprised if his feelings were still hurt.

"It's so nice to see you again, but I should get going now. What was your name again, officer?" I ask with fake kindness.

"Officer Gaines," he says. He puts his hands on his hips right near his stun gun, proudly reminding me that he's armed. What a fucking joke. "You best remember that."

I laugh, ignoring his little weapon. It's not even a taser.

His tongue flicks over his lips. I hold back a grimace. I imagine the mall cop drinking that poison bottle Crave gave me. Maybe the mall cop would have a coughing fit, and I'd be there, right by his side, to offer him more of the "sports drink." Here, I'd say. It'll make you feel better.

Then the sad little mall cop would crawl on the floor, his lungs and throat closing in on him, desperate for an antidote. I'd know that it was me, all me, who took his last breath. I'd sit on his face, and he'd gasp into my pussy. He'd be suffocated by a so-called child.

I walk past the mall cop to the cashier at the front of the antique store, taking the nightgown with me.

Maybe I am more like Crave than I'd like to admit.