Page 14 of Serial Killer Games

“What the hell are you doing?” a voice bellows. “We’re in the Cascadia Subduction Zone! What if there’s an earthquake?”

It’s the elderly caretaker whose smoke breaks sometimes overlap mine. Dolores slips to the ground and tugs her skirt down, swearing under her breath. Her lipstick has left a pink smudge on her lips, and I wipe my own mouth with my gloved hand.

“Idiots!” he hollers at us. He lights a cigarette and stomps to the far side of the roof, where he glares at us from under bushy eyebrows.

I cough, and Dolores coughs, and she can’t seem to look at my face. She stares at the city view instead, and I stare at her profile, wondering if that kiss was as surprising to her as it was to me.

And then another feeling creeps in after the surprise: apprehension. It’s a terrible risk to let anyone in.

She clears her throat one more time.

“You’re not as bad at that as I thought you’d be,” she says, casually shanking me with her words, her voice back to normal—bored. “But you should quit smoking. If you want to kill yourself, I can help you think of some more creative ways to do it. In fact, I’ll do it for you.”

And to her it’s just a little insult, but it’s somethingcompletely different to me. She turns to walk past me, but I sidestep in front of her.

“Would you?”

Surprise, for a split second, before her habitual sarcasm rallies. “What sort of loose floozy do you take me for? If you want to see my straight razor, you’re going to have to put a ring on it first.”

She’s already turning away, back toward the rickety table with her phone. I’m desperate to stop her. All I want is for her to keep looking at me like she actually sees me.

I blurt out the first thing I can think of. “How was the Paper Pusher documentary last night?”

She stops in her tracks at the abrupt subject change. “It was delightful,” she says over her shoulder. “An ethical serial killer who goes after corporate perverts with a long HR trail. Doing God’s work. Andlocal, too. So important to appreciate homegrown talent.”

“I ended up watchingGhost Hunters,” I tell her. I did no such thing.

She turns and narrows her eyes at me. She can’t make me out. “So you’re into that paranormal shit.”

“Well, I wasn’t. Until I started seeing a ghost.”

She snorts contemptuously. She turns away from me again, and I add, “Here. At work.”

Dolores stops and slowly revolves on the spot to face me once more. “Really.”

Her voice is bored again, but I know she’s not bored. If she were bored, she’d leave.

“At first I didn’t understand what I was seeing. I thought she was just like everyone else. But after a while, I noticed it’s almost like no one else sees her. Just me.”

She peers at me.

“She shows up at work every day like a normal, living, breathing worker bee. She sticks to the annex, which is perfect because it’s been a ghost town since the layoffs.”

Her expression has changed.

“She goes through the motions of a normal workday. Ghosts are like that—they’ll carry on with whatever routines they had before.”

“Is this a story about a ghost, or her stalker?”

“Just a ghost.”

Dolores flinches against a gust of wind whipping across the rooftop. She glances at the caretaker across the way.

“This is a very boring story,” she says, and I know she’s hooked.

“Well, I think there’s a clever twist.”

“And what would that be?”

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