14. Rae

While the restof Pahrump is Anywhere, U.S.A., the graveyard on West Street is deserted. Bitter. Desolate. And yet it's one of the only places that feels real.

Off to the side, Penny wanders the grounds, shouting to me about the different burial plots. I'm listening, but as soon as I find the grave we're searching for, my mind loses focus.

Weeds grow around Michael Hall's grave. His stone is flat, dirt smudging the surface in the shape of a footprint. Even the groundskeeper doesn't care about what happens to a murderer's final resting place.

A fresh bouquet adorns the neighboring grave, and balloons decorate the headstone to the other side. I dust my hand over my father's stone, clearing it off. The epitaph reads: A good man who did what was right for his family.

Family has always been a strange concept to me. I was raised by a single mother who put me through one of Clark County's only private schools, paid for my college, and made sure I had everything in my grasp to find a good job in upper-level hospitality management, just like her. She did everything for me. Even if it's just us—a mother and a daughter—I should be able to easily call us a family. My mother loves me.

I check my phone briefly. Red notifications dot the screen. Today, I have two missed calls from her, and that's not counting the other calls, voicemails, and texts I've ignored since moving to Pahrump. I can't bring myself to call her. I just don't care.

If Michael Hall—a man who killed his own wife, and perhaps didn't even know he had a child—can be called a family man, then what's keeping me from calling my mother and I a family?

The word "family" never fit us though. Even before I learned about my father's past, there was always suspicion lurking in my mother's gaze, like she knew instinctively not to completely trust me. And maybe she had a right to feel that way. After all, half of my genetics were controlled by a man capable of killing his own wife. Maybe it's not that far off to think that one day, I might become the same as him. A woman capable of killing my own family.

The gravel crunches. Penny shrugs her shoulders, then kneels down and pulls a weed next to my father's headstone. The roots hang down from the plant like blood vessels.

"I guess if the government says you killed people, you're not worthy of proper maintenance," she says.

"I guess not."

We both pull up weeds and lie them down in a pile. I appreciate the sentiment. Penny doesn't care about Michael Hall's criminal record; she still wants to honor and respect a dead man by doing this small act.

My phone buzzes in my purse. Penny snarls. I elbow her side playfully.

"It's your uncle," I tease.

"That's even worse," she chokes. "Why don't you marry him already?"

I playfully smack her arm. "Trust me; we aren't there yet." I answer the phone: "Hey, Ned."

"Hey, beautiful," he says. His voice drops: "Listen, I talked to my brother, and he can't get anything like that from the Michael Hall case. I'll keep checking and see if there's another way to get that kind of information, but it's confidential, you know? I tried to explain the context, but he says they get requests like that all the time, and he can't let a DNA sample slip?—"

My mind goes blank. I'm outside of myself, sitting on top of the mortuary building, looking down at Penny and a girl named Rae. Nothing is real.

I can't confirm that Michael Hall is my father.

But Crave was just messing with me. He said so himself.

What if Crave is right, though? What if I'm chasing the idea of someone who doesn't have any connection to me?

What if I've been chasing Crave for no other reason than the fact that he excites me?

What if this is all for nothing?

"I'm so sorry, Rae," Ned says, interrupting my thoughts. "I tried to make it happen, but it's legal stuff, you know?"

"Thanks," I say. I clear my throat; I need to appear more grateful. "Really, I appreciate it. You're a good man."

Michael Hall was a good man too.

Another man. Another lie.

"This isn't over yet, okay?" he says. "I'll keep working on it. My brother has to know something."

"Sure."

I stow my phone in my purse. Penny lifts a brow, reading the mood change. She doesn't ask me about it.

My phone buzzes again. I answer immediately.

"Hello—"

"This is the Pahrump Police Department," an automated voice says. "Due to unforeseen circumstances, we've had to cancel your appointment with the sheriff. Please call back to reschedule?—"

I hang up before the message finishes. An unsavory taste lingers on my tongue.

The timing is strange. It's as if Ned, his brother, and the sheriff discussed my interest in the case somehow. And maybe they did. Maybe they're all in on this, and this is another attempt to hide what really happened to my father.

Or maybe it's a sign that I'm supposed to let it go.

The breeze chills the bare skin on my neck. I pull my cardigan tighter around myself. Penny studies the headstone thoughtfully. She picks up some dried twigs.

"Why do you think they were killed?" I ask.

Her eyes trace mine, her expression different from before. Maybe she's trying to read why I'm actually asking. It's a sudden change in tone, I know that, but I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do now. Asking her seems like the best way to figure that out.

"Some things are the way they are," Penny says. "There is no reason. No nature. No nurture. People are just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It is what it is." She lowers her eyes to my father's gravestone. "That's the only truth that helps me make sense of this stuff."

I cling to that word: truth.

The truth is in my DNA, and part of me is scared of that. What if I never get the answers I'm looking for? What if I'm related to Michael Hall, and he really did kill his wife? Or what if Crave is right—that I'm not actually related to Michael Hall—and I don't have any excuse for the way I am? What if my fucked-up thoughts don't have any direct cause? What if this is who I am for no reason at all?

"Hey," Penny says. She puts a hand on my shoulder. "Are you okay?"

I straighten my posture. There's no point in bringing Penny into any of this.

"I'm fine," I say. "I guess it's kind of weird to be so absorbed by this dark stuff sometimes."

"I get it. Totally," she says. "Let's just focus on the party for now. Are you finished cleaning?"

There's still a window that needs to be replaced, but after spending all of my free time in the Galloway House, the wall is patched up and both floors are finally clean enough for a party.

"Then we'll start decorating soon," she says.

"And the guests?" I ask.

"Everyone's coming. It's going to be packed."

"This is—" I stop. I'm at a loss for words. I don't know how to feel about it.

"Exciting," Penny finally says.

My stomach flutters. I'm not sure if "exciting" is the right term for it, but I fake a smile and go along with it. On the surface, I'm eager for it. This party has the potential to give me the answers to my questions. If my mother—someone who loves me—can keep me at a distance due to blood that I supposedly share with a killer, then proving that he's a victim will give me the ability to prove my worth, and give me the opportunity to shove my innocence in her face.

But with each day that passes, my mind is increasingly on overdrive, sensitive to every subtle change in the atmosphere. A party like this may drown me even deeper than before, leaving me with more questions than ever.

"It's getting cold," I say. "Let's head back."

We walk back to the car, and I make a decision for myself: whether or not Michael Hall is a murderer or a victim, it doesn't change anything. He's still my father, and the truth matters to me.

There's nothing I can do to change my past.