Page 60 of Serial Killer Games

“Ha. No. She’s far too busy.”

“Is that…” I strain to hear. “Barking?”

“We’re on the roof.”

Jesus. “The pet zone?”

“Don’t worry. It’s just little dogs today.”

“It’s not safe up there. The walls are too low.”

“Either I bring her up or she sneaks up when I’m not looking. She loves the dogs. I think you’re going to have to get a little friend for her.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. I want to give her a little dog friend so badly. “As soon as we have a place with a yard.”

The mythical place with a yard. It’s never going to happen. I’m so glad Jake made me keep the money, but I have to use it for something else. Spencer & Sterns. My laptop. My double life.

Across the way, Jake has approached the counter.

“Give her a squeeze from me,” I say, and I end the call.

I watch his mask slip on. He flicks on a handsome, charming, serial killer smile, and the agent melts like wax under a flame. She smiles back. He says something, and she titters, and he says something else, and her face fills with concern over whatever lie he’s expertly fed her. A moment later, she’s printed a boarding pass and handed it to him. A one-way international ticket, first class, for a grand adventure.

He walks back to me and holds out the pass to rub in my face.

“You have a window seat,” he says.

I blink and take the pass with numb fingers. “What?”

I stare at it. A seat on the next flight home, later today. “What about you?”

He glances at the departures display. London. Mexico City. Paris.

“I’ll catch a different flight.” He flashes me a big fake psycho smile, and walks away.

27

Death Rattle

Jake

I slurp my coffee andI pace, and twitch, and sweat. Grant’s penthouse turns dark and then light and now dark again, and the green numbers of my alarm clock are like the eyes of some nocturnal creature come to scavenge. I haven’t showered or shaved since getting back from Las Vegas.

You need to figure out what you want to do with the time you have left.

The building sleeps. Grant sleeps. Everyone sleeps, except for me. And now it’s Monday again, and I can finally see her, if only on her terms. I shower. I shave. My skin looks pale and shiny in the mirror.

You need to figure out what makes you happy.

I hear the noises of Grant stirring in the next room. He sneezes. He coughs. He mutters to himself—practicing lines he’ll use in court today. He pauses to allow the jury to gasp. He slams his hands on the bathroom vanity for emphasis. “Objection…objection…” He tries it a few different ways until he settles on, “Objection, Your Honor!”

He minces into the open living area I keep clean for him, in the suit I collected from the drycleaners for him, and his eyes settle on the breakfast I’ve prepared for him. He smiles a winsome, toothy grin at me and digs into his egg whites.

You take better care of him than yourself.

“You look like shit,” he says conversationally, and I make my mind up in an instant.

“I’m moving out.”

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