23. Rae

"Thanks for hosting this murder party,"a stranger says as he shoves a six-pack into my hands.

I raise a brow. "You're?—"

"Hey, bro!" he shouts across the room.

I gawk. "—welcome, I guess?"

Penny shrugs. "I guess he must have come from the flyers?"

My phone stays on the recording app. With the amount of people here, there has to be a new detail. But everyone that approaches me rehashes the same lines.

"Of course, I was here," one woman says. "I mean, I was only five years old, but I remember it on the news, you know? My parents wouldn't let me go to day camp that summer. It was this whole thing."

My eyes glaze over as the woman drones on about the vibes that summer, and I realize the fault is in this idea. A murder anniversary party is going to attract twenty-somethings who are out for a fun, spooky time. Party guests who did not commit double homicides as toddlers.

I sigh and glance at Penny. "This is?—"

"—Crazy, I know," she says. "But the killer could still be here. They're always fascinated with publicity around their crimes."

I nod, because she's right. It's likely that the killer is here. Somewhere. Maybe. We should be looking for older-aged guests, but my mind is unfocused. It has been for a while because there is only one person I want to see even more than my father's killer.

Crave.

I scan the living room. A woman sits on a man's lap, both of them right on the "decorative" blood stain, while a horde of twenty-somethings take vodka shots behind them. They cheer and slap each other's hands. My brain melts.

Crave may be here tonight. He may be in his mask, or he may come without a disguise. He could be my father's killer.

Of course he's the killer, my brain argues. You already know he's a murderer. He even hired people to kill you. Why couldn't he have killed your father too?

Sweat gathers on my brow. The noise increases, and my pulse races with it. I've never been in the house with this many people, and it's like suffocating on a crowded bus. My stomach churns.

"These crab cakes are killer," someone says.

I scrunch my nose. Killer? Did someone really use that word to describe an appetizer at a muder-suicide anniversary party?

Who brought crab cakes anyway?

"The tequila is out."

"Tequila?" Penny shouts. "Uh, excuse me. If you're not twenty-one, you can't?—"

"Cool outfit," a young woman says. "Are you cosplaying as Miranda Hall?"

I glance down at the nightgown I bought from the antique store. With my pale foundation and the dark eye shadow circling my eyes, I definitely look like Miranda Hall's ghost. It seemed like a good idea at the time, a way to provoke the killer even more.

I don't respond. I walk toward the kitchen. The tequila may be out, but someone will have something to numb my senses.

A hand grabs my arm, and I ball my fist, ready to punch the assailant.

"Hey there, beautiful," Ned laughs. "I'm not going to bite."

I exhale slowly. Bite. Hah. I've been jumpy ever since the hitmen and the mall cop, but I haven't told Ned anything yet. I don't plan to.

"Sorry," I say.

"A little bit more of a turn out than you expected, huh?" he asks.

"That would be an understatement."

"You and Penny did such a good job. Look." He corners me, a business expression stretched across his face. "What if we charged for entry next year? Maybe we can make this an annual thing. We could make it a haunted house with the party being the main event. And with the ouija board?—"

"Ouija board?" I gawk.

"Yeah. Crazy, huh? One of Penny's friends brought?—"

Don't freak out,I think. I don't care about a ouija board—if it helps the event or provokes the killer, then fine, whatever—but right now, I'm out of my element. I can handle one-on-one interactions; they're easier to shift to your advantage. But when it comes to large groups of people, I'm out of my element.

I rub my brow. Ned's eyes scan me, and his financial ambition melts away.

"We'll use the profits to find out who killed your father," he says quietly. "All the funds will go to hiring a private detective or something. Here. I'll start a donation fund for this year."

He grabs a bowl from the table behind him, emptying the chips into another bowl, then he digs out a ten from his wallet, dropping it in.

I reach to stop him. "Just?—"

His eyes are patient, waiting for me to tell him what to do. I blink rapidly. Does it matter if he collects donations?

Does any of this matter?

"Just don't tell anyone about my connection to it, okay?" I say.

"Of course not."

A woman with blue hair smacks Ned on the back. Ned offers her the donation bowl.

My head spins. I'm surrounded by friendly strangers, and I smile at them, but my heart palpitates. They could attack, and any one of them could be my killer. You never know who the person next to you might be. For all I know, Crave could be here too.

A person shakes my hand. Their lips move, but I can't hear the words. My chest squeezes. It's like I'm surrounded by a group of animals that could stampede at any moment.

I'm suffocating.

I run outside, going past the open gate and up the dirt road. A few people smoke to the side, and I go past them too. Over the curb. Across the parking lot. Until I'm leaning against the exterior of the mall.

It's just people,I tell myself. Normal people.

My heart steadies, and eventually, my shoulders relax. But no matter how long I look at the Galloway House glowing in the distance, I can't let go of the feeling that my father's killer isn't inside of it. Not yet, anyway.

"What a fucking nightmare," I say.

A figure steps out of the shadows. A white polo shirt. Black slacks. A black belt. Broad shoulders. A widow's peak.

Officer Gaines.

A shiver runs down my spine. I wrap my arms around myself, tightening my grip as if I'm wearing a shield. I close my eyes, speaking wordlessly to myself, comforting my rapidly beating heart.

Crave will be here.

Crave will be here.

Crave will be here.

And he'll kill Officer Gaines.

"Nice costume," Officer Gaines drawls. He nods towards my nightgown. His hands are on his hips. This time, there's no gun though. It's just his regular stun gun. I'm relieved.

"Yours too," I mock.

He grunts. I shake my head. He doesn't have any power right now. There are too many people at the Galloway House. Too many witnesses.

I've been so obsessed with finding out where Crave is that I forgot why I wanted to ask him for help in the first place. I had planned to ask Crave to murder Officer Gaines for me, but now, I realize it wouldn't have been as satisfying to watch Gaines die. I want to kill him together. I want to kill Gaines with Crave.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if Crave killed my father. Maybe I'm better off, more powerful, because of Crave. If my father was still alive, I would never have met Crave.

It's not like I knew Michael Hall. He's half of my DNA, sure, but he's nothing more than that.

And Crave means so much more to me than a sperm donor.

"You're right," Officer Gaines says, his voice softer than usual. He motions toward the house. "It's a nightmare."

I scrutinize him, waiting for the anger to boil under my skin, but the negative emotions fizzle. I don't feel anything right now. The mall cop doesn't have much longer to live anyway, and being here, standing with him, is still better than being around a bunch of strangers pretending to be my friend because I'm holding a murder party. Officer Gaines is a fucking rapist asshole, but he doesn't pretend to be anything else. I've seen his true colors, just like I've seen Crave's.

No,my brain argues. Officer Gaines pretended to be good. He pretended like he was going to help you right before he blackmailed you into eating his ass. He's a security guard who turned on you the moment you were behind closed doors. He hides his true colors just like everyone else.

I clench my fists. All of my thoughts are right, but I hide myself too. I don't feel guilty for tricking others, stealing from them, or even for the murderous thoughts I have about Officer Gaines. Why would I care if the mall cop pretends to be good when I know I'm going to kill him soon?

For now, I'll pretend to be good too.

"You're working tonight?" I ask dryly.

"Something like that." His upper lip twitches. "You?"

"Sure."

And with those words, it's almost like we're friends now, because we both work at the mall and we both hate seeing strangers crowd our space like that. Still, my skin crawls. I may be able to relate to him right now, but I still don't like him.

"I'm not letting you rape me tonight," I declare.

"And I suppose you're not murdering anyone tonight, either," he says.

I lock eyes with him. He studies me back. The power exchange between us keeps us tied together.

Me: a murderer in his eyes.

Him: a blackmailing rapist.

My eyes skim over his lips. My tongue throbs in my mouth, remembering the ridges of his ass. His hairy cheeks smothering me. Using me. Taking what he wanted from me.

"You enjoyed it," he says in a husky voice, as if he can read my mind.

"I wasn't thinking about you," I say.

"That so?" He chuckles. "You seemed mighty focused on sticking that dirty tongue deeper into my hole."

My cheeks burn, but I don't look away. I can't. That would show weakness. I want him to know that I'm not going anywhere. He will pay for what he's done.

"You won't get away with it," I say.

"I don't doubt that for a second," he says. Another chill runs down my back. I keep my focus on him, pretending to be unafraid. "But you'll enjoy that revenge, won't you?"

That hatred freezes inside of me, my chest opening up, letting Officer Gaines see my rotting heart. He knows he's a horrible person. He accepts that he's a blackmailing rapist. Embraces it, even. But he sees the horror inside of me too.

I watched people die. I never told the cops. And I'm planning Officer Gaines's murder. Maybe I am just as bad as he is.

Someone shouts. The crowds of people trickle inside of the Galloway House. My phone buzzes.

Penny texts: Ouija time.

I cross my fingers, pleading to the universe that something happens. Even though it's a silly party game, if it gives me one more detail, maybe I'll figure out what I'm supposed to do now. If finding my father's killer matters anymore.

"Looks like it's time for you to go," Officer Gaines says.

The house pulls me closer. A crawling sensation creeps through me with each step. At the gate, I look back at the mall, halfway expecting Officer Gaines to be following me, but there's no one. It's like he was never there.

A vision flashes in my mind: Officer Gaines's corpse lying in the darkness. Crave standing above him, waiting for me. Another surprise. A gift.

Soon,I tell myself.

The strangers crowd around the dinner table, tea light candles glowing around the ouija board, the planchette held down by Penny and some of the other guests.

Penny nods at me. I start to nod back, but the planchette moves, and Penny focuses on the board.

My mind glosses over. I go through the back door. The executioner's stone with the brown-black stain beams at me, streaked with fake red blood, the moonlight casting directly on it.

I sit on the rock and stare into the empty desert.

"Give us a sign!" someone shouts. "Anything!" Laughter erupts.

A shadow envelops me.

Black boots. Leather gloves. A mask. The zipper pulled shut over his mouth, like he has nothing to say. Those mesh-covered eyes focused on me.

Crave is here. Finally.

I stand, and once we're toe to toe, he fists my hair. I shudder. He maneuvers me until my stomach is flat against the stone. My hair falls down to the sides of my face, and he pulls up my nightgown, the clink of his belt sending chills through me. The leather belt pulls through the loops, and I melt into the stone, ready to accept whatever he gives me. To let him take and take and take.

His metal-and-flesh cock enters me, ripping a hole inside of me, my newly healed flesh torn to shreds again. The nightgown falls down, covering my legs, but there's no barrier when it comes to his cock and my pussy.

The edge of a sharp blade touches the back of my neck, and I can make out a long handle in my periphery.

My heart stops.

Crave holds an ax like the first murder in the Galloway House. The mother—Mrs. Galloway—was decapitated on this very rock. It's like I'm her ghost right now, and Crave is fucking me, just like my father raped his wife right before he killed her.

A gasp rings through the air. I keep my head twisted toward Crave, my eyes locked onto the black holes of Crave's mask. I can feel people watching us; I don't care. With the long nightgown tucked around my legs, they can't see us fucking. Even if they could, I wouldn't stop.

A tingling sensation spreads through me. Crave is here. For me. And that means something.

He's my father's killer.

He has to be.

"Oh, wow," someone says.

"The spirits are coming!"

"Dad joke, not funny. Thanks?—"

"That's not a ghost. That's the girl. The podcast chick?—"

The lights from the house, from the candles by the ouija board, from the parking lot lamps—all of it grows until his leathery face gleams.

My brain fills in the gaps, conjuring the real Crave.

Crave killed my father. I'm the daughter of one of his victims. And I'll never be able to escape that.

Crave rests the blade of the ax against my neck, the pressure tickling me. He could kill me right here, right now, chopping off my head in front of everyone. He's likely considering it. Maybe he knows he'd be better off if he killed me too.

But I could also spin around and swipe that mask off of his face once and for all and expose his true identity. There would be so many witnesses. Someone would be able to identify him, and I'd have a face to attach to my videos. I could reveal him to the world.

He knows I have that power. That's why he's drawn to me.

Neither of us stops. We keep fucking. There's more power in keeping Crave to myself, using him like he uses me. We're each other's victims and perpetrators, and I won't let that go. Not yet.

"You killed him," I say softly. "You killed Michael Hall."