Page 18 of My Girl

“You broke the lock,” she says. “I know the mall owner. I can make it so that no one knows we are here.”

We.

Her eyes flicker back and forth across my mask, searching for answers. People don’t like it when they can’t see your emotions. I don’t have many, but I like how the mask hides the few that I have. Anyone can buy a bondage mask at a leather shop. You can even order a customized one with zippers and mesh. All it takes is a down payment in cash.

“There was a husband and wife that were murdered here twenty-five years ago,” Rae says. “You’re going to steal the evidence from that case for me.”

“Am I?”

“Or I will give the video of you murdering those people to the police.”

I can’t help it. My loud laughter ricochets against the walls. This little girl thinks she can control me?

“A round of applause for the brave little girl,” I mock. Her eyes betray her, widening as she tries to figure out why someone like me—someone she knows is a killer—would find entertainment in this situation. I give her a clue: “A little girl using coercive measures to get a murderer to steal for her is absurd.”

I step closer. She refocuses the gun’s aim on my chest.

“What do you think you’ll find exactly?” I ask. “It’s not like that couple has anything to do with you.”

The corners of her lips sink. “My father died here.”

“Michael Hall,” I say. Her lips quiver. “He committed suicide.”

Her gaze lowers slightly, then comes back to me. “No,” she says. “He was murdered.”

I clap my gloved hands together triumphantly, and she jumps, almost tripping on the wooden step behind her. I meet her at the base of the stairs.

“Good for you, thinking on your own,” I say in a low voice. I move closer, eating up her personal space until we’re inches apart. “And you think a little girl like you is going to find this killer?”

“I know I will,” she says. “Maybe it wasyou.”

I chuckle at that. She’s good. I’ll give her that.

“Do you know how long it’s been since the murder-suicide happened?” I ask. A flash of disgust ripples across her face. I click my teeth. “If it is a murderer, they wouldn’t stick around Pahrump now, would they?”

“Murderers like to revisit the places where they committed their crimes,” she says. “It’s in their blood.”

“Textbook information. A well-versed murderer would know that. It’s an easy clue. A way for the police to find him again.”

“Not if he’s good at covering his tracks.”

I pore over her, licking my teeth. There’s a haughtiness to her words, a confidence that annoysandintrigues me. A confidence that I want to strip away from her right now.

I rip the gun from her hand. She reaches for it. I immediately wrench the barrel under her chin, forcing her to look up at me. She strains her neck.

She could fight me. The fiery expression in her brown eyes knows this. Instead, her breathing quickens. The adrenaline fuels her. She may not know it, but she likes her own primal reaction. Being forced to endure. To stop thinking. Being made to do exactly what I want.

“Tell me,” I murmur. “When you turn in the footage, are you going to tell the police how exciting it was to see those people die?”

Her thighs tense. The sour scent of her arousal mixes in the air, swirling around us, my head soaring higher.

“Blackmailing a murderer,” I say. “What if I save us both the trouble and kill you right now?”

I lick my lips. A large gulp eases down her throat.

“If you kill me, Ned knows to give the video to the cops,” she says.

Anger flutters inside of me. The owner of the mall. The technical owner of this house.ThatNed. Another pathetic little freak hiding behind a good boy disguise.