Page 84 of Serial Killer Games

“Fifteen,” she says, closing the door. “Andrew’s parents will be shuttled over from the home. Ninety-five and ninety-two this year, and still gallivanting around for the holidays. Can you believe it? Of course, they want to spend Christmas with their great-grandkids.” At the mention of Andrew’s sister’s grandkids, her smile flicks back on in full force: “Threelittle ones this year. June and Molly are five now, and there’s the baby of course—Oliver.” Laura beams at me. It’s all about the kids, for Laura.

Andrew’s voice emanates from somewhere in the house. It’s a one-sided conversation, or argument. Laura twists her head to listen in on this half of the phone call, her smile slipping again, and I reflexively leap into distraction mode, like I always did when I lived here.

“Is the tree all decorated?”

In answer, she swans ahead of me into the vaulted living room where a ten-foot Christmas tree flaunts itself in sparkling, twinkling glory. Garland is threaded through the banister, silver stars dangle from light fixtures, holly and cedar swags hang on the doors, Christmas ornaments clutter every surface—Santa throw pillows, snow globes, snowman nesting dolls.

Christmasbelongsto Laura. She practically invented it. It’s always been that way—at least, after that first awful Christmas when a car crash landed me in this strange house with a pair of strangers. There hadn’t been a single holiday decoration of any sort in the entire place that year, and I’d wandered the house silently at night while they slept, wondering what sort of aliens I found myself living with. But now it’s all perfect, the entire house. The pile of gifts under the tree is obscene, the biggest one left unwrapped: a deluxe Barbie house festooned with ribbons. Laura has a tendency to go garbanzo beans over the girls.

Andrew’s voice gets louder, and it’s clear now that it’s his sister he’s arguing with. Laura drifts to the foot of the stairs and listens, still, her hand like a claw gripped around the banister.

Distraction mode. “What needs to be done in the kitchen?”

Laura swivels and fires a bright, strained smile at me and leads me to the kitchen. The oven is on, all stovetop burners firing, and every inch of counter and tabletop has been assigned to a job. Crystallized cranberries dry on a baking sheet, candy cane brittle cools on a rack, peeled potatoes lurk in a big pot in the sink…it’s endless. More has always been more for Aunt Laura. She’s spent days working on this. I take an apron off the pantry door, tie it tight around me, and when I turn around, she’s smiling for real.

There’s a bang upstairs, and I redirect quickly with our favorite game.

“The mixer,” I say.

Laura glances at the mixer. “How?”

“He’d have to be wearing a tie.”

“Oh, grisly!” she says appreciatively. “Asphyxiation or broken neck? Either one, I suppose. Now, tell me what you think of this.” She fishes a kitchen gadget out of a drawer. “I saw it and bought it just to show you. Right through the orbital socket and into the prefrontal cortex.”

She engages the plunger and little claws come out of the hollow shaft and click together.Clack clack clack.Princess twitches on the mat at her feet.

“You win,” I say, and she glows, the yelling and the banging forgotten. That’s the magic of I Spy a Murder Weapon.

Laura tugs a dish towel off the counter to make room for a cutting board—and a chef’s knife lurking underneath goes spinning through the air. She yelps. It twirls in slow motion, glinting with Christmas colors as it pirouettes through space above Princess where he lies on the kitchen mat, and my hand reaches out all on its own to catch it.

I make contact.

“Jake!” my aunt shrieks.

I hear her plop down onto the floor next to me—because I’m already hunched on the floor myself—and she squeezes my shoulder.

“Jake,” she says softly. “It’s okay, honey. Open your eyes. You can look.”

It’s not okay. I’ve got it clenched into a fist now, but I got a glimpse of my hand—of theinsideof my hand—the split second before I closed it.

Slow footsteps come down the hall, and the kitchen door swings open.

“What’s the shrieking about?” Andrew says coldly. He eyes me dispassionately.

“Jake’s cut his hand.”

Andrew’s eyes are skeptical slits. “There’s no blood.”

“He’s stanching it.”

“Why are you sitting on the floor? What’s wrong with you?”

That’s when Princess sticks his face in it. Snuffling, dirty white, with rust stains coming from his eyes, he presses his stubby, arthritic paws into my lap and wafts his foul breath into my face—

“Get up,” Andrew says.

Princess tries to stick his wet nose to my hand, and I jerk it away.

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