Page 66 of Serial Killer Games

“Her little spreadsheet?” Jake chuckles dismissively. Cynthia and I both turn to look at him. “She had me doing data entry for her.”

“What spreadsheet?” Cynthia asks.

Jake raises his eyebrows and glances back and forth with a look of mischief. He pulls out his phone and a moment laterCynthia’s desktop computer pings. She clicks around for a moment and then her face slackens in surprise.

“This list…” Cynthia says, and I realize Jake has sent her his mysterious list. “Is this what I think it is?”

Jake nods almost imperceptibly.

“Yes,” I say. “Obviously.”

Marie cranes to look at the monitor, but Cynthia abruptly minimizes the window.

“And…” I say, taking a leap and praying for a soft landing, “taking that course in Las Vegas…was all part of it.Transformational change,” I say, and the idiotic words strangle me.

Cynthia creaks back in her chair and considers me with eyes as cold and hard as concrete. The clock on the wall ticks, Doug mouth-breathes, Jake twirls and bounces his foot like a lawyer who bills nine hundred an hour so he can put it right up his nose, and Cynthia weighs my fate.

“You were working on this on your own. A self-directed project. He”—she tips her head to Doug—“wasn’t involved, was he?”

I shake my head, and Cynthia makes an expression that could be heartburn or, possibly, a smile.

Next to me Jake pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Cynthia says sharply.

He lights a cigarette.

“Are you smoking? In myoffice?”

Jake shrugs apologetically. “I really should quit,” he says around the butt. He stands, shoves the pack back in his pocket, and leaves.

“Did he just quit?” Marie asks hopefully.

I don’t linger. I get up and run after him, but he’s vanished. I race back to the annex and I catch him just in time, putting on his coat and slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“Jake!”

He turns to look at me, but I don’t know what happens next, and neither does he, so we just stand there staring at each other. The circles under his eyes are so dark, and he’s clammy and pale. I don’t know when that started. I want to reach up and rest my hand against his forehead.

He takes an experimental puff of his cigarette.

“Why the—” He hacks. “These things are disgusting.”

“Jake.”

He coughs and stubs the cigarette out on his desk. We look at each other and say things without opening our mouths.

I’m sorry.

Thank you.

I do love—

I already have the mug.

He turns on his heel and goes.

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