Page 77 of Serial Killer Games

I scoff. “You don’t know anything about her.”

Jake’s expression has turned thoughtful.

“What?”

He shrugs. “I recognize her from somewhere. Somewhere I used to work. She was like that. Weirdly protective. Maybe after decades of being persona non grata to worker bees and higher-ups alike, she’s set her sights on a mentee before she retires.”

He’s always been one for spinning fantasies. He sprinkles the macerated paper towel in the trash.

“Go relax or something,” he says, and I deflate suddenly like an air mattress splitting open at the seam, all the pressure inside belching out in a breath of stale air. “I can’t clean the place with you shedding messes everywhere you go.”

I peer around the corner at Cat, who is sitting on the living room floor surrounded by her dolls. She makes dialogue, bouncing her Barbies on their toes as they talk to each other.

I creep slowly out of the kitchen and across the carpet. Three feet from her, I stop. Slowly, awkwardly, I kneel on the carpet just behind her. Her hair is tangled. She needs to let mebrush it. That will be another fight, later, but for now it’s nice to just sit near her and listen to her play with the toys I pinched and saved to buy her.

But then Cat looks over her shoulder at me, surprised, like the sight of her mother getting down on the floor is alien to her. I suppose it is. There aren’t enough hours in a day to be a good mother and a fun one. I quail under that look, but then Cat slithers over to me and slides into my lap—soft and warm, claws tucked away, well fed and at ease in this tidy, nice-smelling apartment—and hands me a Barbie.

“You can be Charlotte,” she says in her funny, furry little voice. “Your bunny’s missing.”

34

Black Widow

Jake

I tip my head backon the sofa and close my eyes. I can hear the murmuring of Dodi’s and Cat’s voices getting ready for bed in the other room, the splashing of water, the TVs of neighboring apartments, the elevator going up and down. I tune out. I hover in that space between consciousness and sleep. Then…the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I open my eyes and Dodi is leaning against the corner of the wall where the hallway opens onto the living room, considering me. She’s changed into her nightclothes, a long-sleeved black nightshirt just short enough that I can see the tattoo dangling down one side of her thigh—a dagger, right where a woman would tuck one into her garter. I try not to stare at it.

“Did you figure out someplace to go?” she asks.

“No.”

She doesn’t point out that I have a pillowcase full of money and could easily explore hotel options. Instead she glides to the kitchen and returns with a pair of wineglasses and a half-fullbottle. She flicks on the TV, and the crime scene photo of a chalk outline on a downtown sidewalk fills the screen. She watches, and sips her wine, and I watch her. If I’m perfectly quiet and she forgets I’m here, I can stay another night. I could turn into a closet squatter, creeping out during the day to use her shower and kitchen, vacuum her carpet, cook her meals, and scurry back Gollum-like to the crawl space when she comes home. It would be a good life.

“You going to stare at me all night, you weirdo?” she says without looking at me.

“Yes.”

She mutes the TV and twists to face me, coiling her bare legs up on the cushion next to her.

“Are you going to tell me what your list is about?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you want me to.”

“I’ll need to know if I want to keep my job.”

“Why would you want to? You don’t have to work a soulless corporate job ever again. Use your winnings to start fresh.”

She frowns at me. “Iwanta soulless corporate job.”

“Why?”

“Ilikeworking downtown. I like the glitz, and the money, and the rush. I like stomping around in high heels and pencil skirts. I want to earn shitloads of money and have a corner office with a view and go shopping on my lunch break for overpriced silk scarves that I never wear and wind up in a tangled mess in a drawer. I want an assistant and a nice car, and I want to send my kid to a posh little artsy private school where I can pay the teachers to back off and just let her blossom into the spooky little goth girl she’s meant to be.”

I suppose it’s good for Cat that she has someone in her corner.

---