Page 58 of Serial Killer Games

He makes an impatient noise, but I push on. There are things that need to be said. There’s more to being a good wife than a willingness to shake some pills into your husband’s palm and press a pillow over his face.

“You’re smart, so I know you’re going to understand me. You’re bored, and lonely, and depressed. I’ve always known you’re not like this…” I gesture broadly at him—at all of him—at the flatness, the friendlessness, his lamprey-like latching onto the dopamine fix our flirtation has given him, the desperation to lose himself in a fantasy world—at everything, basically, I see reflected in myself. “You’re not like this because you’re a sociopath. You’re like this because you’re depressed. You need to do something about it.”

The mask falls away suddenly and dramatically. It’s the first time I’ve seen anything like anger on his face, and it’s a relief to see it. It’s human. It’s so normal. It’shealthy.

“I’m not depressed,” he says levelly. “This isn’t a chemical imbalance. I have a completely valid reason for feeling the way I do. Taking a pill or talking to a therapist isn’t going to help me behappier.”

“I’m not suggesting you ‘get happy.’ It’s your right to feel miserable. You deserve to grieve properly instead of avoiding it. You’ve been working so hard to convince everyone around you you’re fine. The fake smiles, the fake golden retriever, thefacade of normalcy. You even used me to lie to your aunt about having a girlfriend.”

“Youtold her you were my girlfriend—”

“And she looked so happy, you went along with it. You can’t live like this—not if you’re dying. Your roommate? Looking after him is a distraction for you. Tell me I’ve got that wrong.”

He stares at me, and I keep going. IknowI’m right. I’ve been putting him together in my head since I woke up this morning—and picked his pockets and rifled through his secrets while he was dead to the world.

“You’re taking better care of him than of yourself. Is it easier to let yourself get sucked into someone else’s crazy and make a whole job for yourself managing their shit instead of dealing with your own?”

He’s a statue.

“You want to live in a fantasy—anything to distract you from what’s ahead. But you need to work on your real life. You need to cut out the people in your life who make you miserable, like your roommate, and your uncle. You need to tell your aunt you’re sick—”

“No—”

“It’s obvious she adores you. She would want the chance to help you in any way she can.”

“He wouldn’t let her, and she’sneverstood up for me against him.”

There’s so much anger and hurt there below the surface, like a wound that needs to be drained. The kindest thing is to keep digging with my lance.

“You need to figure out what you want to do with the time you have left.”

“There isn’tanythingI want to do—”

“You need to figure it out. You need to figure out what makes you happy, at the most basic level, and you need to do that.”

I kneel down on the dirty airport floor, unzip my carry-on, and pull out the hotel pillowcase containing half the winnings from last night. I’d divvied it all up when Jake was in the hotel room bathroom folding towels back into swans or whatever he was doing. In the cold, bilious light of day, I feel so grateful to Jake for cutting me off last night. I need the money so badly, but half is enough for what I need to do.

“Here,” I say, pressing it into his chest.

“I don’t want it.”

“It’s yours.Take it.Hop on a plane and see some of the world. Find something that makes you happy.”

“You make me happy.”

He reaches up as if to take the pillowcase, but he just holds his hands on top of mine, against his chest, and I can see it coming like a train derailing, one segment after another flying off the tracks, and I want to scream at this shit-for-brains idiotYou can’t say—

“I’m in love with you.”

My heart sprints in the worst way, because if he thinks I’m going to say it back—

“I know you don’t feel the same way,” he says quickly. “I don’t want you to.”

I unstick my tongue. “What do you want me to do with this information?”

“Print it on a coffee mug.”

I try to wriggle my hands out of his grasp, but he doesn’t let go.

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