Page 69 of My Girl

Rae is nothing more than an obsession, but obsessions are dangerous; they poison different parts of you until your entire life revolves around that single object. I’m done with that.

I’m ready for death. I always have been.

It’s time we both died.

Chapter23

Rae

“Thanks for hosting this murder party,”a stranger says as he shoves a six-pack into my hands.

I raise a brow. “You’re?—”

“Hey, bro!” he shouts across the room.

I gawk. “—welcome, I guess?”

Penny shrugs. “I guess he must have come from the flyers?”

My phone stays on the recording app. With the amount of people here, there has to be a new detail. But everyone that approaches me rehashes the same lines.

“Of course, I was here,” one woman says. “I mean, I was only five years old, but I remember it on the news, you know? My parents wouldn’t let me go to day camp that summer. It was this whole thing.”

My eyes glaze over as the woman drones on about the vibes that summer, and I realize the fault is in this idea. A murder anniversary party is going to attract twenty-somethings who are out for a fun, spooky time. Party guests who did not commit double homicides as toddlers.

I sigh and glance at Penny. “This is?—”

“—Crazy, I know,” she says. “But the killer could still be here. They’re always fascinated with publicity around their crimes.”

I nod, because she’s right. It’s likely that the killerishere. Somewhere. Maybe. We should be looking for older-aged guests, but my mind is unfocused. It has been for a while because there is only onepersonI want to see even more than my father’s killer.

Crave.

I scan the living room. A woman sits on a man’s lap, both of them right on the “decorative” blood stain, while a horde of twenty-somethings take vodka shots behind them. They cheer and slap each other’s hands. My brain melts.

Crave may be here tonight. He may be in his mask, or he may come without a disguise. He could be my father’s killer.

Of course he’s the killer,my brain argues.You already know he’s a murderer. He even hired people to kill you. Why couldn’t he have killed your father too?

Sweat gathers on my brow. The noise increases, and my pulse races with it. I’ve never been in the house with this many people, and it’s like suffocating on a crowded bus. My stomach churns.

“These crab cakes are killer,” someone says.

I scrunch my nose.Killer?Did someone really use that word to describe an appetizer at a muder-suicide anniversary party?

Who brought crab cakes anyway?

“The tequila is out.”

“Tequila?” Penny shouts. “Uh, excuse me. If you’re not twenty-one, you can’t?—”

“Cool outfit,” a young woman says. “Are you cosplaying as Miranda Hall?”

I glance down at the nightgown I bought from the antique store. With my pale foundation and the dark eye shadow circling my eyes, I definitely look like Miranda Hall’s ghost. It seemed like a good idea at the time, a way to provoke the killer even more.

I don’t respond. I walk toward the kitchen. The tequila may be out, but someone will have something to numb my senses.

A hand grabs my arm, and I ball my fist, ready to punch the assailant.