Page 89 of Serial Killer Games

Sound cuts out, the universe rolls to a standstill, and that sickening, paralyzing chemical bath suffuses my brain, my heart, every fiber of my body from my hair follicles to my toes. Adrenaline.

And I think of Jake.

For a single, self-indulgent moment I imagine him here, saving the day again, solving my problems, keeping Cat safe for me.

Jake? I need your help. Yes, another body. No, an actual murder this time.

But he’s not here, and I don’t have time to throw up or hyperventilate. Those can happen later in an order pleasing to me behind the locked door of my bathroom after I’ve put Cat to bed tonight. I’m on my own—I’ve always been on my own—and my options are fight, flight, or freeze. I choose fight. Ialwayschoose fight.

I drop my bags and pull out the sport shop purchase I made just before Cat disappeared—a children’s baseball bat. I keepmy eyes on her as I break into a sprint. I don’t even try to sidestep the outraged shoppers in my path. I slam into people’s shoulders. I twist past a throng of idiots blocking the corner rounding the atrium and jam myself through a narrow gap between a pillar and the glass railing to detour a hot chocolate pop-up. It’s a clear run across the bridge and around the far pillar—and now I can’t see her anymore—

I sprint down the crowded thruway leading off to the upper outdoor parking level. I jump up onto a bench and strain, trying to spot a blip of red in the darkening evening beyond the tiny glass doors leading outside. Then I work backward, scanning the crowd for a splash of red, a splash of red, a splash of red—there’s going to be so much red splashed all over the place by the time I’m done—and then my eyes do catch on something red: Santa.

38

Christmas Orphan

Jake

I practically startle out ofmy skin. Cat stands next to me, staring at the puppies with me.

“Mommy said she’ll get me a puppy when we have a house,” she says.

I notice she’s not wearing any shoes. It’s bewildering. It’s like a bad dream—not a nightmare; just something excessively weird that will make me feel uncomfortable for the rest of the day.

“Whereisyour mom, Cat?”

She shrugs. “Dunno.”

I pan the busy atrium for a glossy black head or a pop of red. Nothing.

“Why’d you go away?” she asks.

I wonder how much she knows about terminal illness, medically assisted suicide, and complicated grief.

“Your place is too small. Not enough room for me.”

She nods like this is reasonable.

I stare at Cat’s socked feet, trying to figure this out. “Were you trying on shoes?”

“Yes.”

The mall map nearby shows two shoe stores. There’s no way she went barefoot on an escalator, so I steer her to the one on our current floor. We turn a corner, and there it is. Dodi is nowhere in sight, but Cat’s winter boots are. She pulls them on.

“What’s your mom’s phone number?”

She narrows her eyes at me. “I’m not telling you.”

“Why not?”

“It’s only for if I get lost.”

“Youarelost.”

She gifts me with a withering look and flounces disdainfully out of the store, but abruptly stops, eyes trained on something beyond. I follow and spot Santa’s workshop, replete with fleecy blankets of glittery white snow, fake trees laden with gaudy plastic orbs, and Santa himself on a golden throne like a despot of Christmas cheer.

“It’s Satan,” Cat whispers, pointing at the sign.

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