Page 114 of Serial Killer Games

“Really?” Laura murmurs with absurd hope. Dodi presses Cat into Laura’s arms and bolts to me.

“Jake, listen to me—” She pulls my arm, but wild horses and all that.

“Keeping your pecker in your pants these days, at least?” Cynthia says, prowling menacingly side to side as Andrew backs away, step by step, until his back is against the low wall. “Not messing around with any young, naive schoolteachers rendered vulnerable in the midst of personal crisis? You swooped in so fast after Jacob left. Definitely not fathering little babies, either, and getting the mothers stealth-fired for having a child out of wedlock—oh, my pearls!” Cynthia snarls, reaching for an imaginary necklace. “What about Catholic values in Catholic schools? The institution of marriage? Blah fucking blah, you fucking hypocrite! I still have copies of the letters from my Catholic school board days—everyone’s statements, including Beth’s. The times have changed and people actually give a shit about how women are treated in the workplace now! I can bring them out anytime!”

I’m finally getting the whole story after all these fucking years. My origin story, hollered from the rooftops. Andrew looks at me with poison in his eyes. A vein throbs in his forehead and his expression turns violent. He’s a monster backed into a corner, ready to lash out and take us all down with him for our part in his humiliation—this public viewing of his nasty little secret, cracked open, wind whistling through its innards, all of us peering in.

“Howdareyou!” Andrew snarls at Cynthia. Princess yips excitedly and his legs run tractionless on the air in front of him.

“Did you know I went out on my own and started my own consulting business, Andrew?” Cynthia continues. “HR departments hire me to push out assholes and creeps andbullies, and now I’ve found someone to mentor, someone to pass the torch to—”

Dodi’s arms tighten around my waist from behind. “Don’t go near her,” she says in my ear. “Jake, are you listening to me?”

I’m not. I’m listening to Cynthia, who’s sounding more and more like my twisted fairy godmother with every word falling out of her mouth.

There are different ways to handle bullies. Unplug, block, gray-rock, smile blandly. Be the most unsatisfying bear to poke. Fawn, if you can stomach it, if it’s something you have to do to survive. Slink away in the night if you can manage it. Do what you have to do to get on with your life, your job, your social circle, your godawful family. Your escape is to lie awake at night fantasizing about the retribution you would dole out if only you could. Because my lived experience has taught me there’s no beating bullies like my uncle. They operate by a different rulebook. They’ll always be willing to go further than you, break more rules than you, suffer more social sanctions than you. They’ll hurt the people you care about if you try to make them think they can’t hurt you. Your righteous anger will give them life and fuel their self-victimization. They will always have the last word. There’s no winning. I’ve always had to pinch my nose and eat shit.

But the thing is, if I’ve got another fifty or sixty years, that’s an awfully long time to be eating shit.

I glance at my aunt’s scared face—mystepmother, I realizefor the first time. Laura, who always picked me—how could I think otherwise—

There’s Dodi, behind me—that rip in her shoulder—

And Cat, wriggling out of Laura’s arms, grunting about her dog, watching and learning how to deal with bullies in real time—

They’re my people, my ragtag family. Not this creep who fathered me. He doesn’t get to terrorize them. And for some reason, it feels easier to stand up for them than it ever did to stand up for myself.

“Give me that fucking dog!”

Cynthia stops midmonologue and Andrew’s mouth falls open like he sat on his balls. He’s never heard me raise my voice.

I lunge at him, dragging Dodi in my wake, her fingers digging into my sides like some tree-climbing marsupial while she hisses a whisper in my ear about Cynthia being dangerous, a paper pusher who’s going to come after me, which is ridiculous, because I don’t even work there anymore.

Laura shrieks “Cat!” as she breaks from her grip, and Cynthia rounds on Andrew with renewed demands to turn over Princess—powerful, snarling, menacing as a pit bull—

Andrew retreats, his back against the low wall, and Cynthia lifts one hand—to admonish him? To hit him? To…pushhim?

And now I’m level with them both, and Cynthia’s hand is reaching to me instead—

“He made the list, Cynthia!”Dodi shrieks. “Get away from the wall, Jake!”

I don’t listen. I reach out to grab Princess from Andrew’s arms—

And then the world buckles—or at least this small part ofthe Cascadia Subduction Zone. The earth rumbles and movement comes from the left, like someone has picked up the roof by one corner and shaken it, sending a broad, shallow ripple across the whole thing, like they’re trying to flick sand off a beach towel. The ripple reaches us, and Dodi topples into me, sending me forward like a domino. My hand collides with Andrew’s chest and the wall catches him about three inches below his center of gravity, sending him backward in slow motion, the only sound to break the horrified silence on the roof coming from Princess, still yipping joyfully in his arms—

“Tinkerballs!” Cat shrieks, running to the wall.

“Cat!” Dodi cries.

I don’t even think. I intercept Cat before she hurls herself over the edge. I hoist her up into my arms and safety, but she shoves one hand right in my face for leverage so she can crane backward and peer over the edge.

“He’s all right!” she hollers. “Look! He’s all right!”

I shake her hand out of my face and glance over. Andrew is emphatically not all right. If Laura wants to do an open casket, she has her work cut out for her. But Princess landed on a squishy body, and he’s fine. He twirls in a tight circle, panting, tongue hanging out, ass wagging, wondering where on earth we all disappeared to.

When I turn around, Laura stands frozen by the parapet, her hands clasped over her mouth. She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t cry. Dodi is on all fours on the Astroturf behind me, dog urine and thawed snow seeping into the knees of her pants. And Cynthia stands still as a column, her eyes on me.

We’re all silent for a minute, our breath ragged, our hearts beating in our ears. Shaky, wild-eyed, shell-shocked. I stare at my hand. I spy a murder weapon.

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