7. Rae

With every breath,my senses heighten, as if something was awakened inside of me in the Galloway House. Still, I put on my normal face and walk through the employee hallway in the back of the mall. It's an act. I'm wearing a mask too—my normal mask. The one where I pretend to be a good person when I'm just as sick as any criminal.

Am I as sick as Crave?

No, I'm not. Even if I wear a symbolic mask, I'm not as bad as Crave. I didn't kill anyone. I just happen to have footage of Crave killing people, and I happen to have clear footage from last night. He's wearing a mask, but it's better than before. Soon, he'll do something horrific in front of me again, and I'll have something real over him.

I knock on Ned's office door. The door opens, and Ned's blue eyes widen, fluttering in approval as he scans me from head to toe.

"Hey, beautiful," he says. "You're early."

"Well, you did all of this for me," I say. "It would be rude if I were late to these interviews."

He laughs brightly. "You? Being rude? Impossible."

I let myself into his office, then plop down on the suede chair in front of his desk. An older picture of his family is framed on the wall. Ned and his brothers, back when they were teenagers, stand with their parents in front of their ranch-style house on the rich side of Pahrump. Everyone is smiling, their blue eyes brighter than the sky. You can almost smell the barbecue cooking in the background. A picture-perfect life.

Or so it seems anyway. Maybe they wear masks too.

A set of keys shine on Ned's desk, each of them labeled with colors and destinations, except for one: a gray key with a small brand name etched into the head.

With Crave using those bolt cutters last night, Ned must have replaced the padlock. This gray one has to be the new key.

"Mrs. Line will be here soon," he says. He grabs his phone and responds to a text. "She's the one who knew the Halls personally. And my niece?—"

His walkie-talkie beeps.

Sir, there's a code blue in the food court,a gruff Southern voice crackled through the walkie. The mall cop. How lovely.

"Crap," Ned mutters, stuffing his phone in his pocket. "Let me take care of this. By then, Mrs. Line and Penny should be here."

"Take your time," I say.

The office door clicks shut. I run around the desk, quickly looping through the keys. I pull off the new key and get back into the seat.

The door opens, and Ned beams at me. A buzzing sensation burns inside of me. Ned doesn't know I just stole his key. He doesn't suspect a thing.

"Never a dull day at the mall," I say.

"You're telling me." He waves toward the door. "Mrs. Line is here. You're going to love her."

I join him, and we walk down the employee hallway.

In the food court, the different kitchens whir with activity. Utensils clink against pans. Hot oil pops. Grease hangs in the air. I study Ned. He's taller than me by a foot, and he's got width too, plenty of muscle for a middle-aged man.

Crave is taller than me too. I haven't seen him in direct light, but I can tell he's strong.

Could someone like Ned be Crave? Serial killers tend to have charming personas to the public eye. Is "Ned" the normal mask Crave puts on for the world to see?

I concentrate, sniffing past the grease and sugar of the food court. Ned smells fresh and slightly masculine, like he just rinsed off at the gym. Ned doesn't smell like Crave. Crave smells bitter, like charred leather and motor oil. But Crave could wash that scent off with some soap and water.

If Ned is Crave, then he'd have access to the house. The padlock could be an act, a way to pretend like he's preparing for potential danger. And using bolt cutters to cut open the lock could be a way to trick me into thinking Ned and Crave are separate people.

Perhaps there's a bigger reason why Ned doesn't want anyone in that house. He wants that space, that privacy, to kill his victims. It would make sense.

Could Ned actually kill someone?

A woman with wavy gray hair sits at a table still glimmering with cleaning fluids. Her skin is loose. The wrinkles around her eyes are warm. She spots Ned and lights up.

"You must be Ned's new girlfriend," she says.

"Oh, come on, Mrs. Line," Ned says. His cheeks redden. I laugh, but neither confirm nor deny the girlfriend title. I offer Mrs. Line my hand.

"I'm Rae Sinclair. I'm doing a podcast on the Hall murder-suicide." I sit across from her. "Ned tells me you lived here during that time?"

Ned pats me on the shoulder. "I'll see you ladies later."

Mrs. Line smiles at Ned's back as he walks away. Once he's out of earshot, she leans forward and grabs my hands.

"He's a bit older than you, but he'd make a very good husband," she says. "He'd always take care of you, just like my husband took care of me."

I force a smile. Ned is undeniably nice, and Mrs. Line is probably right about him. About us. I'm not interested in dating though, especially if there's a possibility that Ned is Crave.

"Mrs. Line," I ask, focusing back on our main purpose. "Is it okay if I record our conversation today?"

"Ned told me you would."

I take that as a yes and pull out my phone. A young woman with dirty blonde hair tucked into a low ponytail zooms over to our table, taking one of the empty seats.

"Hi," I say. "Can I help you?"

"Ned said you were investigating the murders in the Galloway House," she says. "I'm your best resource on it."

A flash of happiness blooms inside of me. Murder, not murder-suicide. The young woman narrows her eyes at me, as if ready to interview me instead of the other way around.

"You must be Penny, then," I say, extending my hand.

She shakes it firmly. "I know all of our local crime history. It's my passion." A nervous laugh chortles out of me. Penny wrinkles her nose. "My dad works for the sheriff. Sometimes he even spills confidential details."

"Ah," I say. Another piece of evidence that law enforcement cannot be trusted. "So criminal justice is in your blood?"

Mrs. Line chirps in: "Your father is a good man."

"Please don't tell my dad I'm here, Mrs. Line," Penny says quietly. "He doesn't want me to go into criminal justice. He wants me to let it go."

Those words ring close to home. My mother wants me to let go of the Hall case too.

"I was about to interview Mrs. Line," I say.

"Go ahead," Penny says.

The recording app blinks red, the duration numbers increasing at the bottom. I turn to Mrs. Line.

"Ned said you knew Michael Hall?" I ask.

"Good man," Mrs. Line says. "A very good man. He always helped me carry my groceries to my car."

My throat tightens. Penny chimes in with questions. I nod, pretending to believe every word Mrs. Line says. My mind goes blank. When I focus back on their words, Mrs. Line is lecturing us on the increased cost of groceries.

"So when it comes to Michael Hall"—I interrupt—"did you suspect that he was capable of murder?"

Mrs. Line crosses her arms over her chest, then sits up straight. "Well, I suppose anyone is capable of murder. But no, sweetheart. I never suspected a good man like Michael would kill his wife." She shakes her head. "Sometimes, I still find it hard to believe."

I can agree with that.

Like a nervous tick, Mrs. Line goes back to discussing inflation as Penny fights her to stay on topic. My brain drifts again. Mrs. Line is in her eighties. Back then, she still would've been an older woman. How can a murderous man help an old lady to her car? How can someone like that blend in so well?

That's a stupid question though. Everyone blends in, even serial killers. It's just another mask.

"Do you think the police are correct that it was murder-suicide?" I ask.

Penny raises a brow at me. Mrs. Line pulls at her sweater's collar.

"Of course! You know, the sheriff is a good man," Mrs. Line says quickly, her attention focused on Penny. "In fact, he was on the force right around that time. A young deputy, of course, but he could help your radio show. Why don't you interview him?"

My mind flashes with different pictures from the old news articles, searching for the law enforcement in the background. It's odd to think that the current sheriff worked on the Michael Hall case back then, but it makes sense. He may have even helped cover up the truth.

Ned said his brother works for the sheriff. What if his brother is hiding Ned's involvement in the case?

A lightness flutters in my chest. Whether or not Ned is guilty, I can still ask his brother for help in the investigation.

"We'll be in touch," Penny says, shaking Mrs. Line's hand. I startle, not realizing the interview had already ended. I shake Mrs. Line's hand too, then turn to Penny.

"Can I talk to you for a few minutes?" I ask.

Penny looks down at her phone. "I've got to leave for college soon. Make it quick."

"How much do you know about the Hall murder-suicide?" I ask.

"You mean the murders?" she corrects. My chest swells in excitement all over again. She gets it then; there was no mistaking her word choice earlier. "They say it was murder-suicide, but there was no definitive proof, especially with the type of drugs in Michael Hall's system. There was a gunshot wound to his head, and the gun had his fingerprints, but if he was that drugged, he wouldn't have been able to lift a gun, let alone shoot himself. He would have been paralyzed." Her head bobs with fervor. "Someone shot him. I'm certain of it."

My heart pangs. Penny's blue eyes—so much like Ned's—blaze with anger, as if she's tired of no one believing her. I can relate to that.

"You know they weren't the first people to die in that house," she adds.

Nor the last,I think. "What do you know about the other murders?"

"Everything."

"And do you think those murders are another fake murder-suicide?"

She shrugs. "I'm not so sure about that. The decapitation. The burned bodies. It seems too personal, you know? The father probably saved the easiest death for himself because his life's purpose was over by then."

"Didn't the father shoot himself too?"

She squints her eyes as she studies me. "Why are you so curious about them? Come to think of it, why are you so interested in any of the murders?"

I think about telling her the truth, that my mother knew Michael Hall, and that he's my father. She seems too smart though, like she'll latch onto me as another piece of evidence.

Right now, I want her to be on my side. I have to come up with a reason she'll accept without any doubts.

I lift my shoulders. "I have a friend who knew the Halls. I guess I wanted to investigate the Galloway House crimes because it's so local, you know? Everyone focuses on the Vegas mobster crimes. I want to work on something outside of the Strip."

"I completely understand that."

I smile automatically. She thinks she understands me; she doesn't know it's a lie. I'm not interested in local crime or history like her, but if she's the local crime expert, then I need her help to figure out how my father died.

"We should meet up sometime," I say. "Talk about this stuff. I could interview you for the podcast, or maybe you could co-host with me."

She smiles. "I'd like that."