Page 62 of Serial Killer Games

My ankle rolls and my bag swings off my shoulder and into the crook of my elbow. I stare at him. He’s supposed to be dipping his feet in the ocean somewhere, rereading his favorite book, writing letters.

“What are you doing here?”

His eyes flick up briefly from his monitor to take me in. “Data entry for Doug.”

I could smack him.“Why?”

“It’s my job.”

His time’s ticking out, and he’s sitting here under humming fluorescents, straight-jacketed in institutional corporate attire, anesthetizing his brain on spreadsheets.

He notices the paper in my hands. “There’s a new sicko on the loose.”

His voice is smooth, relaxed, and I feel my shoulders drop. I glance down at the headline. Five minutes ago I thought this was an unmitigated disaster, but with Jake here it seems almost funny.

“I haven’t read the article yet,” I say.

“You know what I think?” he says, leaning forward conspiratorially.

He wants to go back to our serial killer games. He wants to press the reset button and go right back to where we were. I want to take him by the shoulders.No.

“Yes?”

He looks to his right, then to his left, an exaggerated act in this deserted room.

“I think it’s two people working together.”

I don’t think he has any idea how sad it is that he’s willing to settle for this, this pathetic game, these pathetic distractions.

“That’s an interesting theory. I suppose two heads are better than one.”

He leans back, crossing his arms. “Oh, no, not even one head. The head’s still missing. What I’m dying to know is, do you think it’s a one-off, or…will they keep working together?”

I realize what he’s doing here in the office today, dinking around with spreadsheets instead of catching a plane to Thailand. He’s trying to spend the rest of his life with me.

“I have no idea what these lunatics are thinking,” I whisper.

“What doyouthink, though? I know you’d have to really stretch your imagination to put yourself into the mindset of the unhinged psychopaths who did this—”

My chest aches for him, and I can’t tell if I’m being generous or selfish for entertaining this. If this is what he truly wants—itissmall enough that I can give it to him—

We each have a finger on the reset button, bearing down, about to click, when Doug comes panting into the annex like a little dog. He’s never tracked me down to my lair like this. He eyes my stolen newspaper and I clutch it tighter.

“Heyyyy, Jack! Dolly,” he says with a vacuous chuckle. His face is already pink and shiny, like he’s been running laps up and down the halls to escape irate HR people. Jake and I stare at him.

“So, Cynthia’s on a bit of a rampage, haha.”

My guess was on the nose.

“Oh?” Jake’s face is a mask of carefully curated concern.

“Yeah, something about your work trip,” he says, and dread pools in the pit of my stomach. The headline pressed against my chest isn’t funny anymore. None of this is funny.

Doug stares at us like a nervous child. Jake folds his arms and leans back in his chair again, projecting the entirety of his concerned focus onto Doug. Doug melts right into it with relief.

“What did she say, exactly?” Jake probes.

Doug lets out a big breath. “Something about unprofessionalism and optics and employee fraternization.”

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