Page 33 of Serial Killer Games

“Dolores,” I say.

She leans against one wall and peers into her phone, ignoring me. She has shadows under her eyes. I know I do too, but I always do.

“Dodi.”

This time when I speak, a muscle in her jaw twitches, and I realize my mistake. We’re not alone, but our companion is absorbed in his own phone and could care less about the grifter sneaking around in our midst. We glide to a stop at the second floor and Pat-from-Projects and Sara-from-Accounts bring their conversation in with us.

“…and Doug’s department has a bunch of unused trainingmoney. If he doesn’t use it all up they’ll allot us less next year—”

“Tell him!”

“I’ve beenhoundinghim. He’s avoiding me—”

“He’s been avoiding me too!”

“So I’ve told Doug to just send someone to a conference—”

“Oof. He can send me. I’d take a free trip to a conference destination…”

Dodi glares at the two of them. They’re too much. Too much action and noise and earnestness for a Wednesday morning. I want to put them on my list. The elevator grunts in sympathy and spits them out at the next floor along with the man, leaving us alone, and when the doors close I take one step closer to Dodi.

“You smell like Clorox wipes and despair,” she sighs. “What do you want?”

It’s one step forward, two steps back with her. I’m the lowly office rat again. What I want is for her to look at me like she did last night when I introduced her to Verity. Obviously, I need to present another gift. Something better than a mutilated Barbie. Something better than a hyperrealistic sex doll ready for butchering.

“What doyouwant?” I ask.

“I want a fucking aspirin and an espresso for my hangover. I want—” She presses her lips together and closes her eyes. “I want to get the fuck out of here.”

“Where would you go?”

She shoots me an exasperated look. “Anywhere.”

“Anywhere? Antarctica? Guantánamo Bay?”

She makes a peeved noise, like she’s swearing off this interaction, but then she says, surprisingly, “I want to go to Las Vegas.”

I almost don’t have a response. Bright lights, noise, revelry. People on vacation, people there to gamble, to take in the spectacle, to be a part of the spectacle. Businesspeople on work trips loosening their ties and wallets at the end of a long day cooped up in the frigid conference rooms, making idiots of themselves in the casinos and clubs. Bachelor parties, stagettes, magic shows, circuses. My skin crawls at the thought.

“Isn’t Las Vegas the vestibule to hell?”

She frowns and looks away. “Sometimes when I look into your eyes I get a glimpse of the vestibule to hell, Jake.”

“Las Vegas is full of people having fun.”

“I know. I wouldhateit.” She says it like she would relish the hating.

“Why Las Vegas?”

She places her phone in her coat pocket and turns to face me properly, gazing at me with a strange, lazy stare.“I have a job to do. I need to dispose of a body.”Then her face distorts into a deranged smile.

It takes me a second to realize she’s impersonating me. She doesn’t have to tell me the real reason, because a memory twigs. Aya and Bex will be hosting theirMurderers at Workevent in Las Vegas.

The doors glide open on the tenth floor, and Doug’s square, pink ham-head peers warily around the jamb. When he’s satisfied it’s just the two of us, he leaps in and jabs theDoor Closebutton with one stubby thumb, his eyes trained nervously on the hallway beyond.

“Jack! Haha. Dolly. Are we going up or down?”

“Up.”

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