5. Rae

The next morning,I stare at my phone's screen again. The police department's phone number is already punched in, the green digits glowing. All I have to do is press the Call button.

I should report the murders I saw in the Galloway House. I should also accept that there's no mystery or hidden meaning behind my father's death: he was a murderer, just like the masked killer. End of story.

I don't do anything.

I've never trusted cops. Growing up in Las Vegas, I've seen corruption firsthand. Give a man money or power, and he'll switch sides, doing exactly what the boss wants him to do, even if it means selling his soul. Even my mother, who always does the right thing, used her position as Director of Operations to save my ass multiple times. I was stealing things from the cheaper guests long before I moved up to the higher paying clients, and my mother always blamed the housekeepers. That way she didn't have to deal with the fallout, and I got to keep doing what I loved most. It was easier for both of us.

I drive to the mall and suck down a peppermint mocha flavored coffee, my brain wandering over the Michael Hall murder-suicide details. It's not like proving his innocence will give me peace.

But it will prove my mother wrong.

He must have been good enough for you to fuck him,I had said to my mother. Her jaw dropped, her hand clutching a tube of toothpaste like it was a life preserver. Power swelled inside of me then. She hates it when I curse, and I knew that little f-bomb would get her attention, especially since she was helping me pack for my move to Pahrump. Did you see the violence with your own eyes, Mother? Did you see my father murder his cheating wife?

The police aren't going to lie about something like that, she had said, raising her voice. He was a bad man, Rae. There's a reason I kept him from you.

It was one of the few times she yelled at me. Energy had rumbled inside of me, knowing that I had finally stirred a reaction in her.

Even now, my chest vibrates, needing more of that.

I guide my car to my usual parking spot, but something in the back of the mall's parking lot catches my eye. Something different. Near the Galloway House.

A chain-link fence.

What the fuck?

I drive closer, then park at the edge of the parking lot, as close to the house as possible. A mall cop—dark hair, average height, broad shoulders—paces around the perimeter, muttering to himself. A padlock is clutched in his hand. A stun gun hangs on his belt next to dangling handcuffs.

Can a mall cop even arrest someone?

I scoff. He's the type of man that wants to act like he has that power when he can't actually do anything. He'd probably try to arrest a trespasser of the house. It's sad, really.

And irritating.

I get out of my car, heading toward the open gate before the mall cop can lock it up.

"Ma'am," he barks, his southern accent alarming. "You can't go in there."

"Oh," I say. I press my legs together, drawing his attention to my sheer stockings, teasing out of my short skirt. He sneers, and I tuck my hair behind my ear, pretending to be shy. "I was just going to check on it. The mall owner, Ned"—I say, dropping his name in hopes that it'll make the mall cop give me some slack—"he left his jacket in there."

"That so?" the mall cop says, his dark eyes fixed on me like he can read through my lies. Like he knows exactly where I was last night.

My face grows hot.

He doesn't know anything, I tell myself. You can figure him out.

He straightens his shoulders, an act of dominance to show off his physique, when in reality, he's only a few inches taller than me. He is more muscular than I am though; his chest is visibly toned, and a middle-aged man like him has to get credit for that. His age shows; white hair feathers his temples, and the rest of his black hair is arched into a widow's peak, like a sad, wannabe Dracula. The strong stench of cheap cologne creates a fog around him. A clean-shaven face. His uniform is stiff too, freshly ironed, like he takes his job in mall security very seriously. He probably likes to call himself "Officer" too.

A chill runs down my spine. I don't trust anyone in positions of authority, even mall cops.

"I'm just doing a favor for Ned," I say.

"I follow the rules, ma'am," the mall cop says, his words blunt. "No one goes in there, besides Mr. Ned. If Mr. Ned left his jacket in there, then I'll retrieve it. It's not safe in there for a girl like you."

A girl like me?

I laugh hard. His brows furrow together, and my fists ball at my sides, a metaphorical knife twisting inside of me.

He wants to belittle me because I'm a woman? All it would take is a few minutes alone with him, and I'd have him literally eating out of the palm of my hand. What's not safe is for him to be underestimating me like that.

I smile, my straight teeth perfectly exposed, the practiced smile I gave in corporate meetings at the Opulence, the same one I use with my valuable hookups too. Even Ned.

"You're right," I say in my sweetest voice. "I'll make sure Ned knows you're watching over this place so carefully."

"Tell him I said hi."

I grit my teeth, then head back to my car. I start the engine, roll down the window, and wave.

"Have a good day, Officer!" I say, my insides mocking him with everything I've got. He nods curtly, then clicks the padlock shut over the gate's loop, already dismissing me, too self important to care about what I do now.

I smile through clenched teeth, in case he turns around. "Fucking asshole," I mutter. Then I park in my normal spot.

The shift at the boutique inches on. Mothers push their strollers by, and a few teenagers spill a trash can in the food court. The janitor is on break, so Ned makes the mall cop clean it up. Serves him right.

Ned strolls by the boutique. I race out to the walkway to meet him.

"Hey," I say. Ned swings around, his styled blonde hair perfectly coiffed above him like streams of sunlight. "What's up with the gate around the Galloway House?"

"There was some trouble last night," he says. "Noise complaints. Surveillance caught teenagers sneaking in. We didn't find anything though."

My fingers twitch at my sides. Teenagers sneaking in? The murder victims didn't look that young, but they were also in the dark. Is that who he means?

Did the surveillance cameras catch me too?

"Don't worry," Ned says. "It's a routine safety thing. Overly precautious, in my opinion. I told my dad we'd put up a fence years ago. Might as well now, right? Better late than never."

Noise complaints. Not murder.

Teenagers. Not me.

I stare at the heathered gray tile beneath us. If I go back to the Galloway House, I'll have to jump the fence now.

What do I think I'll find there anyway?

I should tell Ned what happened. It wasn't teenagers. It was me and three other adults. Two of which were murdered.

"What's wrong?" Ned asks. His hand grips my shoulder. "Are you okay, beautiful?"

I lift my shoulders. Beautiful. He always likes complimenting me. My mother loves men like that. She especially loves it when they're older. It's the daddy figure she always liked, the daddy I probably needed.

But when men like Ned call me "beautiful," it's a lie—sweet words to get someone to like you. It's what I do too.

I could tell Ned the truth, that there were no teenagers. Just me, two bodies, and a masked murderer.

Then the house would be a crime scene again, and I wouldn't be able to go back by myself.

"I'm fine." I wink. "You can cheer me up later though."

He grins. "You going to let me eat your cake?"

"Hope you're hungry."

"You know I'm starving."

Once my shift ends, Ned goes down on me in his office, and I quickly fake an orgasm. Then I drive to my apartment, my mind running in a million different directions. I have to decide what to do about the Galloway House. Now.

I can do the right thing and tell the police I was there last night. I can help them find the culprit…

Or I can do something else. Something that will help me.

My father's death—his real cause of death—wells inside of me, boiling over the edges of my sense of self. I need to know. I need to find out the truth, with or without anyone's help, to prove to my mother that I'm not that bad. And until I uncover the real story, I can't let the Galloway House go.

Those mesh-screened eyes fill my head.

Don't killers come back to their crime scenes?

What if that masked man was around when my father died?

What if he is my father's true murderer?

I laugh. I can't tell the police that, especially not without evidence. They would think I'm crazy.

I close my fist around my phone, then hold it to my chest like it's a teddy bear comforting me.

I can use my footage against the murderer. Wield it as leverage. Get closer to him. Use him to find out more about my father.

The masked murderer is a man, and men are always more inclined to listen to other men, especially at a place like a police department. He can steal the evidence for me.

I can blackmail him.

"That's crazy," I say out loud. "I can't blackmail a murderer."

I cock my head to the side, letting the idea spread its fingers around my brain.

A sense of invincibility curls inside of me. That masked man could have killed me. He should have killed me.

But I'm still here.

"What are you even talking about?" I say. "It's not like you're too hot to kill. He was horny. You were there. He meant to kill you, but he got preoccupied with cleaning up dead bodies."

The words come out, but the logic doesn't process in my head.

If that masked man is willing to murder, then he'll be willing to steal evidence from a government building. If anything, a criminal like him would likely enjoy the challenge. And at the very least, with this footage, I'll have power over him. Someone I can mold.

A lethargic warmth crawls over me, my body throbbing in its heat. It's settled, then. I know what I'm going to do. I'm going to need more surveillance equipment to take with me—a camera or something to keep in my purse—because I'll need to gather more evidence against the masked man. I'll also need the key to the padlock on the new gate.

Most of all, I need a solid way to protect myself.

I go to a local electronics store and buy a tiny camera—the size of a grommet—that fits into my purse strap. Then when I'm back at the apartment, I dial Ned. He answers on the first ring.

"Hey, beautiful," he says.

"Hey, I've got a favor to ask." I adjust the phone. "Can you help me get a gun?"

His jaw audibly drops. "A gun?"

"Yeah, it's just—" I pause. I don't want him to get worried, but I also need a gun if I'm going to blackmail a murderer. I could get one myself, but having Ned get one seems better. I'll convince him to put it under his name, and he'll be on my side in case anything bad happens.

"I need to protect myself, you know?" I say. It's honest enough. "And I'm not really sure what the protocol is to get one in Nevada."

"Tell me who it is," he growls.

Ned, the good man, is always trying to protect others. Protecting me probably means keeping me locked in his tower so that no one could get near me, and so that Ned wouldn't have to hurt my enemies. He would never kill an ant. It's sweet, in a vomit-inducing way.

"I live alone, you know?" I say. "I just want to protect myself. You never know what can happen."

He sighs. "You're right about that."

In the corner of the kitchen, a camera records the phone call; I installed it so that I'll always be ready to prove my innocence. In the past, a surveillance camera like that proved my guilt. One day, it may help me.

"Well," Ned says, clearing his throat. "It's late, but I've got a friend who owns a shop. I can pick you up in an hour. We'll get you something."