Page 63 of Serial Killer Games

Jake connects eyes with me, briefly. Doug should definitely not be talking to us right now.

I knew that my job at Spencer & Sterns would blow up in my face one day, eventually. I just thought I’d get there on my own steam. I thought I’d have time to prepare a safe landingfirst. Instead, Jake lit the fuse—first with the Ken doll and then this work trip—and it was a very short fuse.

I could be sick.

“You know what they say,” Jake says, relaxed and cheerfully conspiratorial. “ ‘HR’s not having a good time unless you’re not having a good time.’ Honestly, Doug, you approved this work trip. Sounds like she’s undermining you. Aren’t you the supervisor here?”

Doug’s eyebrows go up. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

“You’ve been here a long time.”

Doug stands a little straighter. “Fifteen years.”

“You’re a hard worker. Everyone can see that.”

Doug puffs right up. “Work is everything to me.”

“ ‘Work will set you free,’ ” I say through my teeth. Jake’s eyes flick to mine, big idiot smile pasted on, and there’s the subaudible click of the reset button between us.

“Exactly!” says Doug. “Who said that?”

“The Dalai Lama, I think,” Jake says. “Look, Doug. I’m just a temp. I don’t think my opinion counts for much here. But if someone said to me that Cynthia has it in for you and that she’s taking out the general by eliminating his foot soldiers one by one”—here he gestures at the two of us—“I’d believe it. Cynthia is so…so…”

“Uppity,” Doug jumps in.

I wince.

Jake smiles brainlessly at him. It couldn’t be easier to play Doug if you put a coin in his ass and cranked his leg. Suddenly Doug flinches, swivels his head around like he’s detecting a sound beyond the frequencies accessible to the rest of us, and scurries out of Jake’s cubicle like a rat dashing to his hidey-hole.

Jake and I stare at each other.

“Are we about to get fired?” he asks, cocking one eyebrow.

Shit.

Jake trails after me into my office.

“Shit. Shit.Shit!” I shriek. I hurl the newspaper, but the pages just slip apart and drift onto the carpet undramatically. I feel nauseated. I locate the wastepaper basket with my eyes in case I need it.

“What’s the matter?”

This whole mess is just the next playdate for him. “I can’t lose this fucking job!”

“You barely have a job. And they’re not going to fire you—”

“They will. If they figure out—” I stop there. I don’t know how muchhe’sfigured out. About being a servant of two masters. About the assignments I’ve been completing in the desk across from him all this time. About what Cynthia has been sniffing out like a well-trained HR bloodhound.

“If they figure out what?” Jake asks.

I don’t answer him. “I thought I had time to come up with a plan.” I’ve been working so hard for us, for her. It was for her. I was so close. And now—

“You don’t need a plan. You have money.”

“I can’t spend that money,” I snap. I really am going to be sick.

“We can find a new job someplace else—”

“You think that’s my priority? Finding a new job withyou?” My priority is her. It’s always been her—

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