Page 52 of Serial Killer Games

The other players have left yellow, orange, and green chips all over the table. Some sit inside the numbered boxes; somesit on the outlines. There are little heaps in the boxes markedEvenandOdd.

“Put it on one,” I tell Jake without looking at him. It’s the best way I know to lose it all in one go. I embrace the terrible odds. I prostrate myself before the house.Take it all.

And as I think this, an achingly familiar voice drifts up.

You can’t beat the house by not playing, Dodi,Neil had said with a smile—his last smile. We weren’t talking about craps or roulette.We lost this hand, but someday you’ll meet someone who will make you want to play again.

Like I ask him to, Jake takes our chips and slides them all into the box marked 1, the loneliest number, and the spinning starts.

The wheel spins and spins, and an age goes by, and finally the ball starts to skip and hop across the ribs of the wheel, looking for a place to land, and—

I don’t know why I need to say it, except that grief latches onto to silly things like numbers to hold its place in your brain, and one is a pet number of mine.

“December first is when my husband died.”

24

Jack of Spades

Jake

December first is also mybirthday. I picture my aunt and uncle waiting for me at that restaurant, Dodi seated by herself at a table for two across the way.

I look at Dodi, and there’s something on her face as she considers me, like she’s calculating a wager. A suspicion blooms.

“You said he was dead to you,” I say.

“What?”

“Your date, the one who stood you up at the restaurant. You were having dinner with your husband.”

Dodi tilts her head and looks away. “I do it every year.”

“One red odd!” the dealer calls out, and the other players and onlookers gasp, but I barely register any of it.

“Sir—” the dealer says, but I cut her off. I know the drill by now.

“We’re going to cash out.”

A new color chip now—brown. Too many to hold. The dealer gives us a slip of paper instead, and the crowd—thecrowd?—parts as we go. But the image of Dodi at the restaurant preoccupies me.

I try to imagine if that’s something a boyfriend would be okay with.Sorry, I’m busy that night. Having dinner with my dead husband!

“How long ago did he die?”

Her stride wavers. “Seven years.”

“Have you been alone this whole time?” She doesn’t have to tell me. I already know the answer.

Her face shutters. “When did you find out about your diagnosis?” she asks me coolly.

I don’t answer.

“Haveyoubeen alone this whole time, pillow princess?”

I don’t need to tell her. She already knows the answer.

“What’s next?” I ask.

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