Page 9 of My Girl

My mother is dead, but my inner thoughts have since taken on her voice like she’s part of me.

“You fucking bitch,” I mutter. “She won’t overpower me.”

I stomp to the two bodies, imagining my dumb mother bent over the pile. I pull out my knife. I shove the blade into one of the corpse’s neck, slicing to the spine. A mix of adrenaline and desire courses through me. I promised myself that I wouldn’t put any cameras in Rae’s new apartment. It’s enough to be in the same town. I trust my instincts to know her well enough. I can control her from this distance.

But maybe I should install hidden cameras. I did it for the firearms CEO. The same strategy could help me now.

I stab the knife into the corpses again and again, the rhythm thumping through me, my dick twitching in anticipation. Then I pull out my cock again, squeezing it until blood reddens the pierced tip. The bodies blur until I don’t see them anymore. I see Rae.

Rae against the wall.

Rae pulling at her torn stockings.

Rae with her tongue down her conquest’s throat.

Rae winking at me.

My dick strains. “Raven Sinclair,” I say. “I see you. The real you.”

On the outside, she’s normal. A generic girl with a smile so plastic, she seems defenseless. A person capable of fitting in.

I blend in too.

Chapter4

Rae

The crescent moonhangs over the parking lot, an eyeless mouth grinning down at the mall. Even though there’s no one around at one a.m., I still park my car under a tree in the far corner of the lot. There may be after-hours security, and I don’t want to draw attention right now.

I clutch my purse to my chest and trudge toward the Galloway House. It stretches into the night sky, a giant growing in strength.

The asphalt turns to dirt. Eventually, I’m right in front of the house.

I picture my father hanging his wife from the rafters, blood dripping down her legs.

I imagine my father holding the pistol to his own head.

Did he think about his choice to kill her? Or did he surrender to a fit of rage, like they say he did? Maybe the fury took hold of him, possessing him so completely that his mind went blank, and when he saw what he had done, he couldn’t deal with the grief. Is that why he killed himself?

Or does it have to do with me?

No… Michael Hall never knew I existed. And besides, the whole crime is too convenient. The rumor was that there weren’t enough resources to give it a thorough investigation, but I still think the cops were too quick to call it “solved.” And if they didn’t investigate back then, I may as well try to now.

My footsteps crunch on the desert sand. I raise my eyes, taking in the height of the Galloway House, sucking in the scent of metal and brittle wood. I meditate on my mother’s words:Your choices have consequences.

Every part of our lives is a result, a consequence. I’m proof of that.

I turn on my phone’s flashlight, then start recording a video. I open the front door. The hinges open smoothly. I furrow my brow. Given the state of the house, I would’ve thought that entering would’ve taken more effort.

I keep the camera aimed in front of me.

Inside, the house opens to an entryway. To the right, stairs lead up to the second floor. And to the left of the front door, the living room contains an old floral couch with a chunk of the back cushion ripped out. There’s a clear hallway from the front door to the kitchen in the back, with a section of concave wall, as if the house tried to decompose, but the desert heat wouldn’t let it.

I inch toward the back of the house. Yellow laminate with white designs stretch across the kitchen, slightly more modern than I expected; perhaps the laminate is an upgrade from when my father and his wife lived in the house. A broken window sits above the sink. I twist the faucet handle. It stays dry.

But there is a back door.

I focus the phone’s lens on the back door, open it, then let it slam shut behind me.