Page 91 of Serial Killer Games

He takes me in, baseball bat and all. His big smile collapses down to that small, asymmetrical twist, the real one, and my stomach flutters and I feel foolish and sweaty. “What areyoudoing?” he says.

“I want Mommy,” Cat says sullenly from Santa’s knee.

“Come,” the grand old gentleman says in a stentorian voice, beckoning to me with one white glove. An elf grabs me by the coat sleeve and hustles me along, impatient to process this special holiday moment. I stumble up onto the dais to stand on Santa’s other side, and the surly elf grunts directions.

“Happy birthday, baby Jeeeee­eeeee­eeeee­eeesus.”

“Smile,” Jake says through gritted teeth, and I force one out at the last second. The flash blooms and my vision goes fora moment. Cat rubs her eyes and Santa unceremoniously dumps her from his lap.

“All right, move along,” the elf says. Cat hops off the dais with me, chattering.

“He’s a pervert. He made me sit in his lap, and then took apicture,” she says.

The elf tries to hand me a photo, but I didn’t pay for a stupid photo. A voice rings out.

“I recognize you!” Santa shouts, and I turn to look. He’s frozen on the dais, eyes locked with Jake.

“You’re in the business of giving gifts, too, aren’t you?” Santa says in a different voice, his normal voice, which carries quite clearly, nevertheless. “What have you got for me this year? Another sex doll?”

There’s a split second’s pause before Santa jumps to his feet and shouts for security. Jake glances at me.

How many dollswerethere?

“Jesus freakingkiddingme.” I grab Cat’s hand, Jake takes her other, and the three of usrun—down the thruway, across the mezzanine, down the escalator, across the food court—Cat shrieking and holiday shoppers dodging out of our way with outraged expressions—and we don’t stop until we reach the deserted cinema at the far end of the mall. Cat lets go of Jake’s hand and melts onto the floor, spread-eagle.

“What happened?”

He pretends to misunderstand my question. He holds up a bandaged hand. “Knife accident,” he says breathlessly. The paint on his shirt isblood. He waves the knife in his other hand. “Had to get a new one.”

There’s a sigh from the floor. “Ihatedthat,” Cat says rapturously. “IhateMall Satan.”

There’s a flicker of that twisty smile when he looks at her, but he’s serious again when he looks at me.

I break eye contact immediately. “I don’t do Santa stuff with Cat.”

“You can’t teach her it’s acceptable for a strange man to keep tabs on her and break into her house and leave her gifts.”

“Exactly! I—” I can’t tell if he’s agreeing with me or making fun of me. I look at his face, and he’s definitely making fun of me. I feel pissed and traitorously delighted, but before I can come up with a retort, it hits me all of a sudden:gifts. The bags of presents I dropped to pursue Cat.

“Come on, Cat,” I say urgently, taking her hand. I leave him there and half jog back across the food court, up an escalator, Cat trailing with her sweaty hand in mine. The crowd has mostly left and half the shops have already been shut for the night. Upstairs, I scan for the bags I dropped. I spot a trampled bag kicked under a bench and pull it out. Empty. The presents were all beautifully wrapped…

I stand and pan around, feeling about an inch tall. There’s no trace of the other bag. Cat watches me with wide dark eyes.

“What are you looking for?”

I startle and turn to find Jake behind me, standing next to Cat. He followed us. I lift my chin. “Nothing.” I’m not going to say it in front of Cat. I have a few other presents at home. A few.

I head toward the exit and Jake falls into step next to me, Cat trailing after us singing “Jingle Bells” in a mournful key to herself.

I wonder where he’s been this whole time. I don’t know how to ask him without sounding pathetic.

“You really do look like Ted Bundy now,” I say.

He glances down. A polyester button-up with a deep pointed collar, pants that almost suggest a flare, and a knife.

“I had to borrow some clothes from someone.”

“A time traveler?”

---