Page 29 of Serial Killer Games

Dolores steps into the kitchen and takes the glass of wine from his hands, as if he’d been holding it out to her.

Don’t.Don’t, don’t, don’t—

Dolores dela Cruz is no idiot. “You can call me Dolly.”

Grant’s gaze swings back and forth between the two of us. He wants an explanation,now.

Dolly obliges. “Your…butler?…brought me here to help you,” Dolly says over the rim of her wineglass.

That breaks the ice. Grant glances at me and guffaws. “Butler! Ha! Hahahaha!”

“He brought me in for my…services.”

She means her body disposal services, but Grant’s face goes serious—too serious. He shoots me a betrayed look. Acall girl. A beautiful, sophisticated one, but acall girl. How could I do this to him? Don’t I remember how it is for him? Don’t I remember all those traumatic experiences in the past frombringing real woman back to his penthouse—all those women who expectedsexwhen all he wanted was an intellectual connection, a connection of thesoul—

I know exactly what Grant is saying with his eyes because he’s said it out loud to me a million times, late at night, when he couldn’t sleep, and therefore wouldn’t allow me to.

But Dolly isn’t done speaking. She stalks over to the sitting area and says over her shoulder, “I have a very special set of skills, as a matter of fact.” She drawls her words slowly, punctuating each one with a step, the red soles of her shoes flashing like she’s been traipsing through puddles of blood. She stops in front of the snow-white armchair in the middle of the living room.

“What do you do?” Grant asks grudgingly.

“What do I do? I’m a”—Dolly pirouettes on the spot—“psychologist.” She flounces into the armchair and caresses the armrests meaningfully. She’s anarmchairpsychologist.

Grant’s jaw drops and his eyes light up, and he shoots me a look of pure gratitude. He loves psychologists. Better than psychiatrists, because there’s more talking and fewer pills. Better than therapists, too—therapists are lightweights. They get skittish and fire him after a couple of sessions, as Pencil Skirt is about to do. He sweeps Dolly with his eyes again—she can definitely pull off a pencil skirt.

“Are you taking new patients? What’s your specialty?”

She cocks her head. “Sociopaths, egomaniacs, garden-variety perverts…You’d be amazed at what comes my way. But my roster’s quite full. I just took on an aspiring serial killer who has an unhealthy fixation with a coworker. It would have to bequitean interesting case to tempt me to take on a new patient.” She narrows her eyes appraisingly. “Why, do youhave something good for me? You seem so”—she chews her lower lip, then purrs the dirtiest word she can summon—“normal.”

“I’m not normal,” Grant brags.

“Hmm. I don’t believe it.” She leans back in the armchair, crossing her legs sinuously, languorously, her movements those of a cat settling into a sunbeam, and the hem of her dress rises slightly to reveal the bottom of a tattoo dangling down her thigh. She scratches her red claws absently on the armrests, and Grant takes it all in, a flush settling on the back of his neck.

“I’m not normal,” he insists.

Dolly drinks deeply of her wine. “Tell me everything, Grant.”

Grant settles on the white sofa next to her armchair and pulls out the big guns. “I’m a workaholic. I work eighty hours a week. Grisly cases. My favorites are the murders, though—I love a good murder—”

Dolly holds up one hand, a slight furrow to her brow. She glances at me.

“He’s a criminal lawyer,” I interject.

She raises her eyebrows, amused. “A criminal lawyer or acriminallawyer?”

Grant soldiers on without missing a beat. “I want to find love, but I have no time for relationships—”

Dolly yawns prettily, and Grant’s speech becomes more urgent.

“I haven’t dated in five years,” he says. “No, six. Women are interested,” he avers, trying to catch her interest. “Very interested. I mean…” Here, Grant waves around at the minimalist opulence of our surroundings. Only extreme povertyand extreme wealth can produce this level of Spartan bareness. “I could have a lot of women. Alotof women are interested in me.” He frowns at Dolly, who is examining her nails, not interested in him at all.

“It must be difficult watching your butler enjoy a more vibrant love life than you,” Dolly says, deftly manipulating Grant for information about me.

“Jake?” He scoffs, shoots a disbelieving look at me. “Jake doesn’t have a…significant other.” Grant frowns, like perhaps this is the first time he’s wondered which way I swing. I have never had a guest over, and I have never been on a date the entire time he’s known me. I’m a piece of furniture in his life. A robot. I could be a eunuch for all he knows.

“Hmmm. Maybe not a significant other. But when he has adateover—”

Grant laughs at this preposterous image. A giant neon sign readingLOSERflickers and hums above my head, and Dolly watches me with a satisfied expression. She dangles the shoe off the tip of her toes, and both Grant and I watch it.

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