Page 79 of Serial Killer Games

She swirls her wineglass. She’s ready for a subject change.“Why was Cat playing with a pair of Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses?”

“She found them in the car.”

“Can I have them?”

“I already gave them to Cat.”

“I thought you were allergic to kids,” she says.

I wonder how big of an idiot I’d be in her eyes if she knew I thought Cat was an actual cat all along.

“I’m allergic to people.”

“Relatable. And I guess she’s not really a kid, is she?”

“Not like any kid I ever met. Does she float when you give her a bath?”

Her lips twitch. “I do sometimes wonder if I shouldn’t burn her at the stake to be safe.”

“Couldn’t hurt.”

Dodi’s face goes serious. “Most nights it’s not like this. It’s not easy.She’snot easy. She’s so…prickly.”

“It can crop up randomly in a family.”

Another lip twitch. “She’s impossible.”

“Have you tried an exorcism?”

The lip twitching is outright dangerous now. “I don’t have any credit with the priesthood.”

“I think you’re doing great with her.”

She’s rendered silent for a moment.

“I want better for her than this,” she says quietly.

I look around the cozy little apartment. I like it better than Grant’s. I like it better than the cold, immaculate house I spent my teen years in with Andrew and Laura. A memory has been slowly surfacing all day.

“I lived in an apartment like this with my mom. Just the two of us. I never thought twice about the things we didn’thave. I had a good childhood.” I think of that calendar on the fridge. “You’re giving her a good childhood.” Another memory rears up. “I fuckinglovedKraft Dinner.”

My words land somewhere in Dodi’s psyche where I can’t see them. She watches me for a beat.

I’m still trying to wrap my head around this new Dodi who is a mother. There’s something about the very idea that changes everything about her. It’s that cliché of a vase giving way to the two profiles on either side. A framed picture on a wall turns out to be a window to an entire world upon closer inspection. All the softness and tender care in this messy little apartment—the basket of folded laundry, the cozy furniture, the snack food, the toys—all of this is Dodi seen from a different angle, Dodi keeping something behind her and out of view. The dark side of Dodi’s mysterious, remote moon.

Mostly it’s been fascinating listening to her go a whole three hours without dropping an f-bomb.

“I’m a bit older than you,” she says suddenly and randomly. Her voice is quiet and serious.

“I already knew that.”

Dodi is the sort of person who spends their twenties looking ten years older than they are and their thirties looking ten years younger. She’s a mystery. But she’s been married and widowed, and she has a six-year-old kid.

“You’rea lotolder than me,” I point out.

She frowns and sits up straighter.

“What are you, five…six hundred years old?”

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