Page 76 of Serial Killer Games

I balk at him, but Cat glows from the inside. She’s been given a mission, a masterplan to follow. A wicked little smile blooms on her face. She stirs her stew thoughtfully.

“Can I take leftovers for lunch tomorrow?” she asks me.

I have no idea what this means. I’m surprised she’s even talking to me. Jake stares at her for a beat, then leans forward with his elbows on the table and catches my eye. “She’s a future HR nightmare.”

I already knew that, but the delighted, twisty smile Jake gives me now makes it sound like a compliment on my parenting. His eyes really are very green. And there’s a smudge of flour on his glasses. My face feels warm. I look away.

I still haven’t tried the stew. I take a bite, and melt.

“This chicken is delicious,” I say begrudgingly. Jake gives me an alarmed look, and Cat grins deviously at him around a knobby leg bone.

—

Cat polishes her bowl anddisappears, leaving the two of us. Under the cover of the table, I unhook my skirt waistband and have a second bowl, an artichoke, and two rolls, all the while avoiding eye contact with him. When I’m done I stand and stackdishes, but Jake firmly takes them from me. I try to scrub a pan, but he silently wrenches it away and elbows me from the sink with one bare arm. I’ve never seen him in a T-shirt before. It’s filthy the way the muscles and tendons tense and flicker just below the surface in his forearms.

“I should clean. You cooked,” I say. He ignores me. He rhythmically pumps liquid soap onto a scrubber, then scours the artichoke dish vigorously and thoroughly, using his hands at the end for a careful, deliberate stroke to check for any stubborn bits. He wipes it dry with a sensuous massage through a tea towel and, this tender aftercare complete, places it gently on the drying rack to recover its breath.

I bite my cheek and drag my eyes away from this erotic display of masculine self-sufficiency. I wonder if he owns a pair of sweatpants, too, to go with the T-shirt. It would complete the image of comfortable domesticity. I could buy him a pair. Dress him up like he’s my doll. I thought girls were given dolls to play with to prepare them for motherhood, but when I grew up, I realized it had prepared me for babying a series of man-child boyfriends. But Jake isn’t a man-child. I watch him carefully wipe out the sink, drape the damp towel over the oven handle, align a wonky magnet on the fridge. He’d probably fold and hang my clothes for me as he took them off.

This is choreplay. This is me on a full belly in a warm, clean house, mind freed up to focus on other physical needs for once. I shake my head. There are knives laid out on the counter with the sharpener. I go to put them away, but he’s moved the knife block. I spot it by the stove. It actually makes more sense there, where I keep the cutting boards.

“How was your day?”

I round on him, and he leans back against the counter, eyeson my hands. I lower the sharp knives. “Are you asking me how my day was?” It comes out as a snarl. I didn’t mean it to. Suddenly I feel flushed and angry and confused. His hair is rumpled and sweet. He snooped through my freaking house. I never asked him to cook. Catsmiledat him.

“Who do you think you are? Coming in here, cooking, cleaning, getting Cat to actually eat something that’s not a freaking Pop-Tart or a granola bar? I guess you’re trying to show me how it’s done? Show me how easy it is?”

But Jake is Jake: cool, unflappable, like my moods don’t mean a thing. The unblinking serial killer watching his victim flail and shout. “I wasn’t doing anything else today. And it looks like you’ve been busy.” He tilts his head toward the calendar on my fridge, and I’m exhausted just looking at it. I’m so tired. I fell asleep on Cat’s bed last night. It’s the only time she lets me cuddle her.

“I wanted to say thank you for putting me up,” he says quietly.

With fury I realize if I blink a tear will probably shake loose. I have no idea why. I’m not sad. I glare at him, a staring contest.

“That, and you’re a pair of filthy animals and I can’t resist a good mess.” He twists the knives out of my grasp and slides them into the block.

“It’smyjob to cook and clean. I’m her mother. I’ve always done it all. On my own.”

Jake ignores me and sweeps the floor, corralling approximately ten specks of dust into the pan.

“How was your day?” he repeats.

I ball up a paper towel in my hands and start ripping it to shreds.

“I walked in this morning to find Cynthia parked at my desk, waiting for me.”

Jake watches me thoughtfully as he taps the dustpan on the edge of the garbage bin. He doesn’t jump in with advice.

“She’s fixated on that list.”

“She would be,” Jake says mildly, mysteriously. He takes the paper towel pulp from my hands.

“The list that my name is on. At the very top.”

“Is it?” Jake says disinterestedly. I frown. Did he remove it?

“She’s fixated on me.”

“In a bad way?” he asks, and I almost laugh at the absurdity of the question. “She’s protective of you.”

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