Page 11 of Serial Killer Games

“Jake,” she says after a few floors.

“Dolores.”

“Thank you for the doll.”

“I was raised to share my toys.”

“Your upbringing is between you and Norma Bates. Plans tonight, Jake?”

“No, but I know what you’re doing.”

“What?”

“Stropping your straight razor and combing the dating apps for your next husband.”

“Close. I’m watching that indie crime documentary on the Paper Pusher tonight.”

I was vaguely aware there was a documentary now.

“Do you think he’s single?” she drawls.

“Let me know if it’s any good,” I say as I step out into the main floor foyer. “Hasta banana,” I say, and I walk away without turning back.

—

From the coffee creamer incidentradiates a little ripple to disturb our peace in the annex. The next day Cynthia-from-HR appears, cat earrings and pathological humorlessness and all. As she stalks toward me I smoothly press three keys to hide my open windows: my list, of course, but also payroll, the email server, and everything else I’m not supposed to look at.

She peers at me over her cherry red reading glasses. “That’s Dolores dela Cruz in there?”

I nod helpfully, and she frowns at the sheaf of papers in her hand.

Cynthia is in her fifties, tall and hale, with short gray hair and sensible footwear, and a way of speaking with emotionless precision at all times. I’m certain the inside of Cynthia’s house is filled with stacks of cozy murder mysteries and framed puzzles she’s glued together. A litter of kittens in a wheelbarrow. A duckling poking its head out of a watering can. She collects her cat’s fur in a bag to eventually knit into a sweater.

“And you’re Jake Ripper?”

I dust off smile number three for her: cheerful and charmingly rueful—Yes, I’m afraid that’s me.

“JacobRipper,” she repeats, staring at me with pale, ice-cube eyes. Something toggles in my brain. She’s…familiar. And I’m familiar to her, too.

She peers at me like I’m a disgusting little boy with dirt under my fingernails. Before I can place her, she tucks the papers under one arm concealed in a frumpy cardigan and opens Dolores’s door without knocking. “Dolores?”

On the other side of the office window, Dolores snaps her laptop shut with one hand and cranks down the volume on the desktop computer speaker with the other. I’ve never seen her flustered before.

“I’m Cynthia Cutts. HR has brought me in as a consultant. I wanted to meet with you in person.”

Dolores stares, unblinking, and slowly clasps her hands over her closed laptop in a protective gesture. I’ve listened to too many of her podcasts, because right now she looks to me like a murderess with blood spattered on her clothes, casually adjusting her long skirt to conceal the murder weapon at her feet.

“What about?”

“I’m just checking in.”

It’s one of those harmless-sounding phrases that is utterly ominous in an office setting. Cynthia glances dourly in my direction, then shuts the door. I, however, have the hearing of a nocturnal predator, and I move to stand directly outside to eavesdrop. Cynthia can’t see me, but Dolores looks up and shoots me a peeved expression through her window.

“I’m getting ahead of a potential harassment situation. I heard there was an incident here with a doll.”

Cynthia is a corporate veteran. As usual, I’ve had my ear tothe ground. She’s rattled around between companies, a hospital or two, even the Catholic school board—going where she’s needed like a frumpy, pickle-faced Mary Poppins sniffing out workplace harassment, and right now the east wind is blowing her into our annex.

I’ve probably seen her at one of my past temp jobs. That must be it.

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