Page 26 of My Girl

“Sorry—I was just playing with myself,” I blurt out. His cheeks turn red. “Sometimes it helps me feel better.”

“You’re right,” he says. “We should make you feel better.” His embarrassment melts away, turning into hunger. “The boutique will be fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“You’re so nice,” I whimper.

He kneels down between my legs.

Afterward, I call out of my shift and leave the mall, then head to the Pahrump Police Station. As the front desk secretary helps me set up an appointment with the sheriff, the urge to do somethingmoreflickers inside of me. It’s a fast pulse, like my insides are vibrating, waiting for my next move.

A man with peppered gray hair struts through the office. A small group of younger men follow him. He moves past me, heading toward the exit.

“Sheriff?” I ask. The gray-haired man swings around. “Can I talk to you, sir?”

He dismisses the men and leans on the counter beside me. He ogles me up and down. I pretend not to notice.

“What can I do for you, young lady?” he asks.

I curl my fists at my sides. “Young lady” sounds so much like “little girl,” and yet it feelswrongcoming from him. Condescending. Like the sheriff thinks he’s such a big man for helping a weak woman.

Crave made it clear that he thinks he’s better than me, but for some reason, I don’t find it irritating when he calls me “little girl.” Instead, it arouses me. If a little girl can get a killer’s attention, then what else can I do to him?

Instead of letting the sheriff’s words get to me, I play into it, shrinking my shoulders meekly so the sheriff feels extra manly.

“I heard that you worked here during the Michael and Miranda Hall murders,” I say. “I’m working on a college project. Could I ask you a few questions about it?”

His expression frosts over with vacancy, like I’m not in front of him anymore.

“You mean the murder-suicide,” he says dryly.

Of course he would say that.

“What if it wasn’t a murder-suicide?” I ask, dropping the shy girl act. “Why would Michael Hall drugandkill himself when?—”

“I imagine that if you kill your wife, you may have a lot of guilt,” the sheriff interrupts. “I imagine you’d want to numb that pain.”

“True,” I say quickly. “But what if he was drugged by someone else? What if it was a setup to make itlooklike a murder-suicide?”

He blinks. “Perhaps the overdose was taking too long.”

He’s got the excuses lined up already. Still, I’m determined.

“But the autopsy information said that there wasn’t enough in his system to overdose. There was only enough to keep him immobile, as if someone wanted him to comply with their orders. As ifsomeone elsewas there, controlling the situation.”

My knees subtly shake, so full of pent-up irritation that I can barely contain myself. I clench my jaw. What if the sheriff knows who truly murdered my father? What if he’s covering up for one of his men? What if the sheriffismy father’s murderer?

“I’m not making this up, and you know it,” I say.

The sheriff takes a deep breath, filling himself with patience.

“I know you worked on the case,” I say, enunciating every word so he knows what I’m actually saying:I know you’re trying to cover up that none of your men know shit about what really happened.“And I know you worked hard to get to your position as sheriff too.”

He looks down his nose at me, emphasizing our height difference. I straighten, broadening my shoulders, meeting his icy gaze. I narrow my eyes too, warning him.

“You’re not the first kid to come in here making accusations like that,” he says.

Kid?“I never made any accusations?—”

“Ma’am, it was ruled a murder-suicide. Michael Hall hung his wife, then he drugged and shot himself. There was a suicide note. There’s not much else to determine about that.” He clicks his tongue. “He was an insecure man.”