32. Rae

"You're not goingto give me your number?" the man asks.

I smile over my shoulder. I don't remember his name, but I don't plan on saying it again. I wink at him, and he grins at me.

I turn back to the window. Down below, the Strip is majestic. A circus of lights. Millions of people with no real direction. A beautiful mess of humanity. And I'm floating above it all.

A month has passed since I left Pahrump, but it feels like it's been longer. The same nights. The same days. The same men. The same stolen possessions that don't mean anything to me. Not like Crave does.

"If I must," I tease. I grab the man's phone and type in the number for my mother's hotel.

He looks down at the number, then kisses my cheek. "I'll call you soon, Miranda."

I give him a quick hug, and a few minutes later, I close the hotel room door behind me, then take the elevator down to the casino.

I don't feel guilty. I don't feel powerful. I don't feel anything.

I ease through the casino and find my mother in the lobby. She waves me over.

"I got you coffee," she says.

I take the cardboard cup, and we walk through the twinkling slot machines, like a child and her mother in an arcade.

"How are you liking your new home?" she asks.

I bite my tongue, thinking over my words carefully. My mind gets stuck on that word: home. She's letting me rent one of her properties at a discounted rate. I can't stay at our penthouse anymore. I'm not even supposed to be in the hotel right now, but she wants to take care of me. She's a good woman, and with the things I've done, I don't deserve a mother like her.

Is that why I can't stop thinking about Crave? Because I think I deserve a father like him?

"I love it," I lie. "Thank you."

"You're still torn up about your father, aren't you?"

I stiffen. In a way, it is true, but not in the way she thinks. In her mind, Michael Hall is my father, and he's dead.

"Try not to think about it," my mother says as she rubs my arm. "Secrets like that can destroy you from the inside out. I don't want to see you hurt anymore."

My vision fuzzes at the edges.

Secrets. Destruction. My insides.

Crave did destroy me from the inside out. He showed me that the blood inside of me isn't just mine; it's his too.

In a way, my mother destroyed me as well. They both made me. Gave me life.

I never asked to be the child of a serial killer and a saint.

"How can I stop thinking about it?" I snap at my mother through gritted teeth. "How? How do I move on when my dad is a?—"

Everything shakes around me. I try again: "When my dad is a?—"

"It's okay," my mother says. She pulls me into her arms, hugging me like I'm a child again. Every time I stole from her flashes through my mind—the money, the jewelry, the perfumes, the credit cards, the way she knew it was me, and how she looked the other way because she knew she couldn't stop me. Nothing has changed; she loves me, even after all of this.

Her perfume—floral and expensive—stifles my nose, and I think about Crave. She's been with him. He chose her, and he didn't kill her. He kept her alive, even before he knew she had his kid.

Did he love her? Does he love her now?

Why did he keep her—us—alive?

Does it have to do with me, or just my mother?

Why does that make me jealous?

"I'm sorry," I say, pulling away from her. "It's been crazy lately. With everything."

Her eyes soften. "Tell me what you need. I'm here for you."

I study her. I don't feel anything. No warmth. No joy. No comfort. No love. She's my mother, the woman who raised me, but we're so vastly different from each other.

I should be grateful that she nurtured me. I'm not. I still ended up being a fucked-up person. I don't know if I would've turned out this way if I hadn't met Crave, but I know that no matter what I do—no matter which mask I put on each day—this need for power has always been inside of me.

"I need some space," I say.

"I understand," she says. "Don't?—"

Before she can say anything else, I rush to the nearest bathroom and splash water on my face. The cold water chills me. I savor it. The remnants of my makeup drip down my face, streaking me in gray. I grab a paper towel and blot my face until I'm completely clean.

I have her button nose. I have their shared natural dark hair. But I have his brown eyes.

His blood.

There's a darkness inside of my heart that is all him. The thrill that needs more from people. More from life. A hunger that has always—and will always—belong to him, no matter how hard I try to resist it.

I pull out the small water bottle in my purse with the ripped-off label: the bottle of poison that Crave gave to me. Since I left Pahrump, I've kept it tucked inside of my purse. A reminder that I could kill him as easily as he could kill me.

If he hadn't told me it was poison, I might have consumed it.

It could have killed me.

It could kill my next hookup.

It could kill anyone.

And it could still kill him.

I stuff it back into my purse, then head to the parking garage. I should pack a bag, but there's an urgency rolling in the bottom of my stomach. I can't wait any longer.

I want to go now.

I don't have a plan, but I know I need to see Crave. I need to confront him for the last time.

I need to ask him for his birth name.