21. Rae

That night,I wait for Crave to show up in my apartment. I even go to the Galloway House. But like a tumbleweed scattering across the desert, Crave disappears. Even his mask—which I hid in my nightstand—vanishes.

By the time Penny comes to the Galloway House the following morning, I'm sitting next to the blood-stained couch. She gestures at the furniture.

"What happened?" she asks.

For a moment, I see Officer Gaines and those two brown-haired men circling around me like vultures. Crave stands behind them, a luminous shadow, their executioner waiting in the darkness.

"A decoration," I say. "I spilled a bottle of fake blood. Got it from that year-round Halloween store in Vegas."

"Authentic." She pinches her nose. "It reeks."

"We can light candles during the party."

"We'll need to. The blood and the candles will add to the atmosphere though."

Each day, we work on the final touches of cleaning, decorating, and inviting anyone in the area who may be interested. When they aren't receptive to Penny's invitation, I turn on the charm, and eventually, they all RSVP.

A week goes by like this. My mind is mush, too distracted by everything that's happened. By the fact that Crave is gone exactly when I need him. And still, each night, I go back to the house. I walk around the basement. I keep my gun close to my chest—double-checking that it's actually loaded this time—ready to shoot the hitmen or the mall cop.

Crave never shows.

Desperation crawls up my toes, bubbling between my ribs, until I stare at those cameras in my bedroom, knowing that he must be watching me.

In a frenzied blur, I invite Ned over to my apartment. He comes over immediately.

"You excited about the party tomorrow?" Ned asks. I pull him into the bedroom.

"Of course," I say. I toss my shirt on the ground. My breasts are in full view of the camera lens.

"Jesus," Ned mutters. "You're incredible."

I tug on his button-up shirt. "I need you," I lie.

He kisses my neck, his touch achingly slow. Goosebumps pebble my skin, but it's not Ned that I see. I imagine Crave's gloved hand pressing a knife to my neck.

Ned guides me to the bed. He pulls my thong down and leaves my stockings on.

I reach for Ned's cock. "Let me please you."

He pushes me away gently. "Worshiping your pussy pleases me, beautiful. This is about you." He kisses my inner thigh. "Let me take care of you."

Is he hiding cock piercings?

No.There's no way he's Crave. There couldn't possibly be such different people locked inside of the same person.

Right?

But Ned is hiding something. There's no doubt about that. And if I want to keep using him, I can't confront him right now. I have to pretend like I want him.

Ned's lips press to my clit, and my brain goes blank. Sometimes, my body is a commodity, and I can use it like a tool. An object. A vessel. A weapon used to get what I want from others. I knew from an early age the kind of power the female body had over others; why wouldn't I use mine to get what I want?

And yet with Crave, it's never like that. He uses me too, but he doesn't let me control anything. He takes. With him, I don't have to think. I can't; my brain doesn't work like that with him. I'm not in control, and I never will be. It's comforting.

Ned's tongue slithers down my slit. I close my eyes, imagining it's Crave. His zipper-framed mouth. His black-fabric eyes. His leathery touch.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs.

The fantasy breaks. Crave would never call me beautiful, even in a situation where he's pretending to be a good man. I don't know if Crave finds me attractive, but somehow, our connection feels stronger than this thing with Ned.

I vibrate and moan, performing for Ned. When I open my eyes, he beams down at me.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" he asks.

It's obvious that I did; I made that clear, and yet he wants confirmation, that insecurity burrowing inside of him. He wants to please me so badly.

He's a man I'm supposed to want. He's got a decent fortune, a good job, he's attractive and tall, and maybe if I let myself relax, I can have a real orgasm with him.

But my memory fills with the image of Crave's mask, the flashlight trained on my pussy.

Such a meaty thing, isn't it? Crave had said. You're so wet, it's disgusting.

Crave doesn't hide behind kindness or sugar-coated words like "beautiful." He told me like it was, and he still wants me.

I glance up at the cameras. Crave's absence pisses me off, and I know that's what Crave wants. Everything he does has a purpose.

Ned leaves with a giant smile. Once his car exits the parking lot, I drive to the Galloway House.

New curtains hang in the windows. A clean doormat out front reads: Welcome Home. My inside joke to the killer.

Crave should be inside. I know he's not.

I check the basement anyway. I even switch on the lights.

It's empty.

"It's because of the party," I mumble. "He's waiting until it blows over. So he can have his space back."

It makes sense, but it doesn't comfort me.

At the apartment, I flip over in bed repeatedly. I can't sleep. All I want is Crave.

I find an old notebook and write a message. Then I stand on my bed, showing it to one of the surveillance cameras.

You want me too, my message reads. I know you do. Admit it to yourself.

I stand there, holding it up until my arms burn. Then I write another message underneath the first and hold it back up to the camera. The note is a challenge that will irk him, and that's exactly why I write it.

Stop hiding from me,it reads.