Page 34 of Serial Killer Games

“Haha. Okay.” He cracks his knuckles like a nervous lunatic, then wipes his sweaty forehead with his cuff. He’s like aslice of American cheese left out on the counter—always a greasy, damp sheen collecting on his skin.

“What are you two talking about?”

“Travel.”

“Oh,” Doug says, intimidated. His idea of travel is a nice, safe beach resort, or a Caribbean cruise where his intrepid peregrinations see him migrating between the buffet and the toilet.

I connect eyes with Dodi. “So dreary and gray here in the winter. But…the waterboarding in Guantánamo Bay this time of year…”

Doug’s eyes light up.

“That sounds about right! I love beach vacations—waterboarding, waterskiing—anything in the water, sign me up, eh?”

“I’m sure Jack would be happy to do some waterboarding with you anytime,” Dodi says. Always so quick on her feet, dear Dodi is. But not as quick as me. Her next gift has been piecing itself together in my head this whole time. I smile pleasantly at her, and she frowns. Nothing good ever came from one of my smiles.

“As a matter of fact, Dolly’s next trip is a work trip,” I say.

Dodi makes a small noise and Doug’s grin slips. “Oh?” I can see him shuffle through the cluttered, crumb-filled pockets of his brain.Gas station receipt, candy wrapper, used Q-tip—here we are, list of goings-on that I need to be aware of. Nope, nothing here—

He coughs.

“The conference in Las Vegas this week? Have to spend all that unused training money, and—well, you know all about it.” I give him ass-kissing smile number twenty-three, his favorite. I glance at Dodi, and her expression is blank surprise.

“Oh.” Pieces of dried-out chewing gum rattle around in Doug’s head.“Oh.”

“We’ll need to get the reservations made today.”

“Right. Right! Yes.” He claps one damp hand on my shoulder. “Talk to Sara.” He squeezes my shoulder and summons a paternal expression. But he can’t think of anything else to say. The doors open to allow newcomers, and without checking which floor it is, he bolts out.

“What the fucking fuck,” Dodi hisses.

The newcomers are engrossed in their office politics and aren’t paying us any attention. Dodi stares at me with wide eyes. That look is back, the one she had when she was sitting in the bottom of Grant’s shower, realizing I’d put together a serial killer playdate for her. Disbelief, and some other big suppressed emotion. Some people wear their feelings on their sleeve; Dodi keeps hers shoved under the floorboards beneath her bed.

“So. Las Vegas,” I whisper to her.

“What conference is this?”

“Any conference. Las Vegas is a conference destination.”

We exit at our floor, and Dodi speed-walks down the hall to the annex, her heels firing like bang snaps as she goes. I lengthen my gait to keep up.

“I can’t go to Las Vegas this week.”

She doesn’t say she can’t go to Las Vegas. Just not this week.

“Why not?”

“It’s too short notice.”

“It’s perfect timing. A way to get out of Cynthia’s sight line.”

Dodi shakes her head and smooths one eyebrow in annoyance.

I tally it finger by finger. “Complete some bogus training seminar. Come back and feed Doug a line about the new ‘strategies’ you’re going to ‘implement.’ Create a busywork project. Insert yourself into his fold. Get your performance review and raise. Gray-rock Cynthia.”

The metronome popping of her heels skips a quarter of a beat as she takes this in. It’s the only indication I’ve said something interesting to her.

“Hire a cat sitter, pack your bags, and come with me to Las Vegas.”

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