Page 40 of My Girl

“Work. That thing. Right,” I joke.

“I’ll catch you later. I’ll talk to my brother and let you know.”

“You’re the best.”

For the second time today, I wonder about Ned. The idea doesn’t make sense at all, but I can’t stop myself from wondering. Could Ned be Crave?

They’re the same height. And Ned could change his voice under the mask. But the cock piercings don’t add up. Ned hides his dick, sure, always putting his sexual attention on me, but I’m certain he would never do something like that to his genitals.

Instead of heading to the boutique, I wander inside of the antique store. Dust floats in the air, the stale scent of old books swaddling me in their perfume. Rusted gadgets. Tin cigarette cases. Picture frames. Used decks of cards from the casinos. Even a vintage chicken ranch sign.

I don’t know what I’m doing here though. Am I shopping for props? Decorations?

A white nightgown, lined with lace, hangs from the top of a booth. A pink bow embellishes the neck, with little flowers embroidered into the lining. I trace my fingers over the nightgown.

My mind fills with the leaked crime scene photos.

Miranda Hall hanging in the noose. Blood leaking down her thighs. Her nightgown had little pink flowers too.

This nightgown could have been hers.

I can wear the nightgown and pretend to be the strangled wife, Miranda Hall. My fingertips tremble over the bow. It’s a simple material reminiscent of that time. When things were softer, kinder.

Or maybe they weren’t.

“Ain’t you supposed to be at the boutique right now?” a hoarse Southern voice asks.

I swing around. The mall cop ogles me. A clean, soapy scent, heavy with cologne, permeates from him, like he’s covering up his gym stink. His round eyes narrow at me like I’m the scum under his gym shoes. His tongue runs across his bottom lip, reminding me of a hissing snake. My neck stiffens.

The fucking creep.

“My shift doesn’t start for another hour,” I say. It’s a lie—it starts in ten minutes—but he doesn’t need to know that. “I didn’t know mall cops also kept tabs on the employees.”

“I keep tabs for Ned,” he mutters. “He’s a good man, and I know you ain’t faithful to him. I’ve seen your hookup profile.”

I huff through my nostrils. Like that matters. Everyone has a hookup profile these days; the mall cop is just making an educated guess. And even if hehasseen my hookup profile and I haven’t seen his, then that means I denied his sexual advances. The mall cop is jealous.

“Ned knows too,” I lie.

“That so?” he says. “Makes sense. Ned knows a child like you is an easy fix then.”

A child like me?

I ball my fists. The mall cop is older than me, yes, but I’m not achild.I’m a fucking adult. I know what I’m doing, and I own my mistakes. It’s part of why I was so irritated by my mother’s reaction when I was fired.You’re just like him,she had said, as if my dead father was the sole reason for blame, when she had watched me steal from guests for years before I was caught.

At the end of the day, this mall cop—amallcop, not even a real police officer—is in his forties, working at the mall. He’s the one who’s no better than a child. A teenager could get his job.

“Ned would fire you if I asked him to,” I say.

“Do it then,” he says. His eye twitches, almost like he’s trying to wink, and I scowl in disgust. “Get me fired, and I’ll make sure he knows about RaeRae69.”

I roll my eyes, though inside, my stomach is rolling. That is my username.

I don’t know if Ned would fire the mall cop for me. It’s not like I have proof that the mall cop is harassing me—my dumb ass left my purse in the boutique break room—but the mall cop could have screenshots of my profile. If he knows my username, there’s a good chance that he has real proof of my escapades.

Would that bother Ned?

No. Ned wouldn’t accuse me of anything; he knows we’re not dating.