Page 92 of Serial Killer Games

“No.”

“The blood’s a nice touch. Somehow you can pull it off. Who’s getting the knife, and are they going to live long enough to enjoy it?”

“Me, I guess. I’m making Christmas dinner.”

“At the homeless shelter? Or is there a little kitchenette in the back of your supercar?”

“Nothing fancy. Just a burn barrel under the bridge. Are you doing turkey?”

I bite my cheek. I didn’t have room in my freezer for a turkey because there was a sex doll’s head taking up real estate, so I left it to the last minute to buy one.

“No. We’re victims of the Great Turkey Shortage this year. We’ll be heating a tin of beans for Christmas dinner.”

“You could do a roast,” he says oh so helpfully.

“I’m a garbage cook.”

“That’s fine. You—”

“I’ve lost most of her presents,” I snap. I glance over my shoulder to make sure Cat’s out of earshot. “Our Christmas tree’s broken,” I hiss. “I had to duct-tape the fucking thing together. I haven’t had time to make cookies with Cat, either, and someone stole some boxes from our basement storage and now we don’t have any Christmas ornaments. I don’t need advice on how to salvage Christmas because it’s already completely fucked.”

I can’t look at him. I’m furious. I’m pathetic. If I look at him right now he’ll see right past the anger in my voice, andhe’ll say something helpful and supportive, swinging a mallet at the weak point in my architecture. Everything will come down and I really will have to kill him.

At the exit I wait for Cat to catch up, and finally notice she’s lost a boot. I have no idea when. For all I know, I took her on an escalator without a boot. Outside the glass doors the rain is picking up again. I can’t look at Jake. I wish he would sink through the floor and disappear and I could get on with my shitty parenting and my shitty Christmas.You’re giving her a good childhood,indeed.

I turn back to Cat in time to find her strangling Jake from behind as he crouches on the floor. He hoists her up in a piggyback ride and waits for me to open the door. My throat closes and my eyes burn.

At the car he swings Cat into the back seat, and I stash the baseball bat on the floor.

“You play baseball, Cat?” he asks.

“No. Mommy got it to keep by the door.”

I shrivel a little. Jake doesn’t even react. “Maybe you can get a turkey if you call around,” he says to me.

“Whatever,” I mutter. “I hate Christmas.”

“Me too,” he says.

“Me more,” Cat says from the back seat. “I like Halloween.”

That twisty little smile again. “Halloween is objectively better by every metric.” He looks at me, and his eyes are so green. This time the smile stays in place, uncertain, but still there. He’s wondering if he’ll get some sort of smile back. There’s no danger of that. It’s taking everything I’ve got to keep my face from collapsing right now.

I climb into my car, shut the door, and pull out.

40

The Grinch

Jake

Andrew’s car is still gonewhen I get back. Maudlin Christ-baby music plays inside, and I find Laura wrapping up a batch of sugar cookie dough in the kitchen. It doesn’t make sense that she’s only just finishing up now, all these hours later, but when she goes to place it in the fridge, there are several other batches of dough already bagged and waiting inside. She’s been busy.

She pours hot chocolate into matching snowman mugs and we settle on the living room sofa. My aunt stares balefully at the Christmas tree. All this work, for what?

But I know for what, don’t I?

“Are you still putting on a Christmas show for me?” I ask.

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