Page 98 of Serial Killer Games

A hacking cough comes from Dodi’s direction, and I can’t look at her. I haven’t told her about the others. Only Anastasia and Una.

“I’ve entered the coordinates of every location where a doll was found into a map, and this street right here is part of his normal circuit! He’s clever, he’s meticulous, he’s always one step ahead—”

Stubbs carries on, dead serious, her TV cop voice gravelly from sleepless stakeouts and stale coffee. “You’re too close to this, sergeant! I’m taking you off the case!”

“Take some personal time! That’s an order!” says Amir.

Pete talks louder. “He has multiple vehicles—that’swhy we can’t pin down the make and model—but there’s always a luxury car around when a doll appears. I’ve tracked down eyewitnesses and interviewed them on my own time—”

He’sobsessedwith me. I risk a look and find Dodi staring at me with wide eyes, and I almost think…Iwanther to know about the others. It was so much work. It feels…flattering to know Baby Cop was watching. No one ever pays attention to me.

Stubbs’s eyebrows ratchet up. “You’ve gone rogue!” she snarls in pretend outrage, imaginary doughnut crumbs puffing out of her mouth.

Amir shakes his head in disgust. “He’s a loose cannon! He’s going to bring this whole detachment down with him!”

“Badge and gun, now!” Stubbs shouts.

“Oh, fuck you!” Pete hisses. He shoves my license and registration into Officer Stubbs’s hands and skulks back to his vehicle without a backward glance. Amir and Stubbs shake with suppressed laughter.

“This isn’t going to bring her back!” she calls out to Pete’s retreating form, and Amir doubles over.

Pete sits behind his wheel, sulking.

Officer Stubbs comes to stand about a dozen feet from me, feet apart, like we’re Wild West cowboys about to duel. I match her stance. She lifts one leg. I lift one leg. We stand balanced like a pair of flamingos.

“Nine steps, straight line, heel toe.”

I comply, coming to a stop in front of her. She lifts one finger, and I lift one finger too, and she rolls her eyes at my stupidity. I quickly drop my hand, and she drags her finger side to side in front of my face, watching my eye movements. She glances in the back seat and her grim face crinkles at the sight of Cat.

“Cutie,” she says, handing over my license and registration. “Can’t wait to break up her house party in ten years. Fix your damn taillight, and have a good holiday.”

She stumps back to her partner and mutters in her wisecracking movie cop voice, “I’m too old for this shit!”

When I slide back into the driver’s seat, Dodi is hyperventilating, tears pouring down her face. It takes me a second to realize she’s laughing.

42

Naughty List

Jake

“What is this place?” Dodiasks.

What this place is, is old and decrepit and dusty. I turn to see Dodi frozen in the foyer, eyes wide, and it’s impossible not to feel embarrassed. Laura and I did the best we could—garland woven through the curved banister, tinsel stars dangling in doorways—but there was only so much a Band-Aid treatment could accomplish.

She sways a little on the spot with Cat asleep in her arms and examines the crimson wallpaper and the old, dark floors, shining now from my polishing. She peers around the doorway into the music room, where a ponderous old piano sits quietly and thinks on its youth. A tarnished chandelier twists perpetually overhead, disturbed by a draft that never stops, and old bookcases line the walls.

At Grant’s, all the surfaces were new and smooth, and easy to clean, but here at Bill’s, it’s impossible. Carved wood collects dust, rugs sponge up dirt and smells. When Dodi looks up at the plaster molding around the light fixture above us, Inotice cobwebs. I don’t know how I missed those. Her eyes track the stairs to the halfway landing, where a grandfather clock mutters darkly.

And then she says something that surprises me: “This place is beautiful. Who lives here?”

I try the words out for the first time. “My grandfather.” Laura hadn’t asked. She’s been conditioned not to pry.

Dodi peers at the photos of the smiling young man with the glasses hanging in the hallway, understanding on her face.

“This way,” I say, and she follows me upstairs over creaking steps to a room with a four-poster bed.

She deposits Cat between the fresh sheets, and I leave her there, tucking the old satin coverlet around Cat. I go to my room and finally change into fresh clothes from the bag I left at Dodi’s.

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