Page 73 of Serial Killer Games

I pick up a family pack of chicken breasts—I don’t think I’ve ever bought the family pack of anything before—and place it in the cart.

“I hate chicken. I hate it so much.”

I ignore her.

But then Cat’s attention is snagged. “What’s wrong with that chicken?”

She’s wrinkling her nose at a packaged critter farther down. It’s skinny, and instead of wings, it has front legs.

“That’s rabbit.”

As soon as I say it, I regret it. Little kids don’t like learning that people eat bunnies. Cat’s about to have her loss of innocence right here under my watch in the meat department and—

“I want to eat it.”

Of course she fucking does.

“Why?”

“It looks delicious.”

Raw meat does not look delicious. “Does this have anything to do with Charlotte having a pet rabbit?”

“No,” she lies.

“Are you going to go to school tomorrow and tell Charlotte you ate rabbit for dinner?”

“No,” she lies.

Grant liked rabbit. I know several rabbit recipes. I could dolapin à l’istrettu, orlapin à la moutarde. Or even just a nice, basic rabbit stew.

“You promise you’ll eat it?”

“Yes.” She seems to be telling the truth this time. I don’t give a rat’s ass about Charlotte. I do care about some little twerp turning her nose up at my cooking.

I exchange the chicken for the rabbit, and in the produce section I get mushrooms, shallots, parsley, hearty winter vegetables…

“I hate white carrots,” Cat says.

“They’re parsnips.”

“I hate them.”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“You’rean elephant,” she says mutinously. She narrows her eyes at me and slits my throat with a scowl.

At the checkout I throw a chocolate bar on the conveyor belt, and Cat eyes it sidelong. “That’s for me getting in the car, isn’t it?” she says.

“It’s for you getting in the car and doing whatever else I tell you, until your mom gets home.” I hold the chocolate bar high over her head. “Do we have a deal?”

Her nostrils flare, but she practically skips back to the car. Inside the car, she scarfs two and a half granola bars, then steps on the remaining half by accident, grinding it into the car’s carpet. It’s the least of my problems.

“There’s rabbit juice,” she says when we pull up to the apartment building, pointing at the back seat where the bags of groceries sit. There is, leaking from the meat packaging and pooling on the leather seat.

She leads the way up the stairs, strumming her fingers on the balusters and humming mournfully to herself in a minor key. We drip a trail of rabbit juice right up to Dodi’s front door. I let us in and sling the grocery bag into the sink.

“Gross,” Cat says, smearing a droplet of blood across the tiles with the toe of her boot.

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