Page 23 of Serial Killer Games

He takes us directly to the top floor and leads me out. When the doors close behind me, I may as well be trapped in the impenetrable dark of a windowless basement, and I wonder if a gloved hand will reach out to guide my face to another kiss. Then the darkness parts. A door. Beyond that, a broad, sweeping view of the city and the ghostlike glow of city lights tracing the contours of furniture. A Christmas tree drawn in string lights blinks stupidly on the side of a high-rise in the distance. The lights come on, and I blink, frozen in the doorway.

White, modern, minimalist—but expensive. So expensive. Brushed steel, glass, white stone. Incomprehensible modern art on the walls. Above the sofa, a big white canvas with a streak of red, rivulets dripping down.

“I forgot vampires need to be invited in,” Jake says from inside.

I step into Bluebeard’s chamber and spin around. “You can afford this place on a temp salary?”

Jake turns to look, as if it’s been a while since he’s taken it all in.

“No. This place belongs to my roommate.”

“Is your roommate Patrick Bateman?”

“It would explain some things. He’s filthy rich. Family money.”

I stroll into the center of the living room without taking off my shoes or coat. I touch the soft leather of a chair. I half expect to leave fingerprints. I feel like a dirty black ink smudge in this pristine snow cave. When I turn, Jake stares at me like he’s examining a Rorschach test.

What do you see, Jake? A ghost? A vampire? A lonely Black Widow?

It’s what my problem with Jake has been all along. He sees me. He notices me. I’m fascinating to him. It’s been years since I was fascinating to anyone. And maybe it’s the booze, or maybe it’s just the way his eyes track me, but even though I’m in strange territory and should feel on the back foot, I’ve never felt this completely in control of another human being in my entire life.

There’s something I need to know. “Is hejustyour roommate?”

Jake’s lips almost twitch. “He’s just my roommate.”

“Why would someone who can afford a place like this want a roommate?”

“He likes the company.”

“Yourcompany?”

“I’m like a live-in assistant,” he answers seriously. “I take care of anything he needs.”

“Dirty work?”

“Anything he has an aversion to doing himself. Cooking, shopping…” The power flickers on Jake’s serial killer simulation, and I see past the mask again. He’s just as curious about what I’m thinking as I am about him. He clutches that bag of gag purchases like he doesn’t know what comes next.

“Disposing of bodies for him,” I prod, and I see something I’ve never seen before. A pleased smile starts in his eyes and tugs his lips in a shy, asymmetrical twist. It’s got to be worth something to be able to make a psychopath smile like that. He’s exasperatingly handsome. A jury would let him walk free.

I slink over to him and take the bag from his hands. “Where’s the kill room?”

I follow him down a hallway and into a large room, where he turns on the lights, dim and golden and easy on the eyes. A California king bed in the middle. Invisible cabinetry concealing a wardrobe on one side. It’s barer than most hotel rooms but oozes luxury.

I place the bag of loot on the bed, and Jake watches me, unmoving. His uneasiness makes me feel enormous, powerful, so even though the crap from the hardware store was never part of my plan, I take the items out and toss them on the bed one by one. The rope, the duct tape, the tarp, the saw, the knife, the goggles, the garbage bags, the wrapping paper—finally they all lie on the expensive white linen coverlet, a twisted tableau. I turn to him to lap up his awkwardness—but it’s vanished. Or maybe it was never there.

This is getting fucking weird. It’s time to set some ground rules.

I step out of my heels and slink up to him, take his tie in myhand, twirl it once around my fist, and pull his head down, close to mine. I can taste his breath on my lips. “I take the lead. I call the shots. If I’m not having fun, I’m leaving.”

“We’ll follow your MO,” he says, and I relax. “How do you want to do this?”

“Hmm. I’m not so sure about the duct tape,” I say in a mock-serious voice. “I have sensitive skin.”

He considers this like a professional. “I guess that leaves the rope.”

“You can show off your Boy Scout knots,” I say.

There’s something I need to know before we go further. It’s been a while for me. “Do you do this often?”

---