Page 107 of Serial Killer Games

“There’s no reason for me to be living here all alone, withall this space going to waste,” Bill continues, and I finally get his meaning.

I look around. It’s a huge old house, and Bill doesn’t even step foot in the entire upstairs. The two weeks I spent here were the easiest living arrangement I’ve ever had. Bill and I get on together. He likes my cooking and my help, and more than that, he likes talking to me. I like listening to him.

“I could use the company—and the help,” he says with dignity. “I don’t want to get moved into some facility by a social worker. I’d like to die in my own home.”

I answer automatically, without thinking. “Of course I’ll help.” If there’s one thing I understand, it’s the desire to be in control of the end. It’s all spun around so quickly, and now here I am, offering the advocacy I always wanted.

Next to me Bill’s shoulders relax a little. I hadn’t realized how tense he was. He’s been barely hanging on to independence for so long.

That secret in his pocket—his lie by omission—his motive for concealing the results—

He thinks he’sconningme.

The sneaky, daft bastard. I don’t even mind.

He continues. “And you may as well make use of the place now as later. You don’t need to wait to cash in on your inheritance before moving in.”

This takes a minute to process. “My inheritance?”

“It has to go to someone.”

I look at it all—the old wood and the discolored curtains that need to be replaced, the abundance of molding and carving ripe for collecting dust, the floors that need to be waxed—my fingers twitch. I love messes. I love taking care of things—and people. It’s my MO.

There’s an offer here: be my grandson, and I’ll be your grandfather.

Dodi’s skeleton still slouches by the fire, staring at us with empty eye sockets, grinning humorously at his skeleton friends tumbling out of closets, attempting to crawl back in. I’m used to living in a family full of lies, and I’m over it. Bill and I will come clean with each other. Later. And I think I’ll accept his offer.

Right now, it’s Dodi I need to talk to.

48

The Mad Dash

Jake

My phone vibrates as Islam Bill’s front door behind me. It slips out of my fingertips and onto the ground, screen cracking, bouncing into a shallow puddle. The snow is melting already, spiky green grass peeking through all over Bill’s lawn.

The screen saysLARS.

“What?” I snarl into the dripping phone.

“Where’s the Lambo?” says Grant’s friendly, curious voice.

“The what?”

“Black, um, sleek…”

“Did you check your closet?”

“It’s a car.”

“It’s right in front of me.” Its lone taillight pulses as I unlock it remotely.

“Oh, that’s a relief,” he says with an indulgent chuckle. “Just, uh, borrowed it?”

“Yeah.” I throw myself into the driver’s seat and pull the belt across my body.

“That’s fine, that’s fine. And where’s the Brunello Cucinelli?”

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