Page 57 of Serial Killer Games

At the airport check-in we find our people—the bleary-eyed,the greasy-haired, the hungover—all being mentally assaulted by chipper, efficient, bright-eyed airline staff serving up bad news like poisonous hors d’oeuvres on a tray.Can I tempt you with an overbooked flight? How about a bumped seat?

“What the fuck do you mean the flight’s been canceled?” I ask.

The check-in agent’s eyes bug and her painted pink lips freeze in a soulless smile.

“Just, no.”

She blinks. “Yes. I can get you on the first flight tomorrow—”

“No.”

Jake pulls me out of the line by my elbow. I protest, I dig my heels in, but the agent has turned to the next passenger. I’m so furious, I miss what Jake says next.

“What?” I say.

He presses his lips together for a moment, like he’s not sure if he dares to repeat what he said. His eyes coast over my face.

“We don’t have to go home. Come with me.”

The request knocks the breath out of me.

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

“Guantánamo Bay?”

He smiles, one of his amused, shy smiles, a real one, and my stomach pinches. We’re standing in one of the largest airport hubs in North America right now, passports in our pockets. I have my bag filled with enough clothes to last a few days, some toiletries—no. We havefour hundred thousand American dollars. We don’t need anything else. I scan the departure flight displays: Honolulu. Seoul. Amsterdam. Panama City.

I can picture it, a pair of murderers on the lam after their latest rampage in Las Vegas. Or maybe…maybe two peoplefinally getting to know each other for a brief while as they see the world together. Getting drunk in first class on sparkling wine. Landing in Guadalajara, where I will casually order our dinner in Spanish, and he will discover that I am conversational after all—certificate in business Spanish, thank you very much. That night in bed he’ll want to know how many languages I speak, so I’ll take him to Manila next, where he can learn more about me—

I close my eyes and let myself savor the fantasy. He spins the best fantasies.

But real life calls.

“I can’t,” I tell him. I don’t say I don’t want to. His smile slips.

“Why not?”

Why not?

A disembodied voice overhead says,Something-something-terminal.I hate airports.

“If you want to travel,” I say, “I think you should do it.”

I worked out my talking points this morning while he slept. I was going to have this conversation with him when we got home—for some reason I pictured us on the roof at work. I was going to tell him that we need to be apart for a while, that he needs to focus on himself for a bit, but that I’ll be ready to spring into action when he needs me.

This is better. I can picture him on a tropical beach somewhere, or walking down the streets of some European city. He could even meet someone. There’s still time for that special thing to happen to him. I won’t be the sort of wife who gets jealous.

“I think you should travel, Jake. And I think you should do it by yourself.”

He sighs. “It would be too boring.” His voice and mannerhave changed. He’s putting on the protective mask again: the Serial Killer at Work. Comedic, deadpan, invulnerable. “And boredom’s already a chronic problem—”

“Stop with the serial killer games for a minute.”

He stares at me from behind the mask, but I learned how to read poker faces from the best.

“Boredom’s not just for sociopaths,” I say. “You know who else suffers chronic boredom? Really smart people.”

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