Page 39 of Serial Killer Games

“Get your bag,” she says to me, undoing her belt.

“What?”

When the plane rolls to a stop, Dodi slithers across my lap with her bag in a vise grip and darts down the aisle.

“Move it!” she shrieks.

There are other planes landing, too: even more competition for rentals. Dodi sprints through the night, and I kick up my heels to follow. We smash through a pair of double doors,round a corner, pelt past the baggage claim, and there, glimmering like a beacon, is a dingyAvissign. There are other people making their way there too. The groggy agent’s eyes widen when he sees us all barreling toward him.

Dodi slams to a stop against the counter like a baseball player stealing home.

—

By the time we havea rental secured, there’s a line fifty people deep. Dodi leads the way out to the parking lot. She’s smoldering. She’s vibrating. Whatever diabolical energy she packed for this trip is coming out in lashings now.

“It’s a silver Nissan Rogue,” she barks at me. “What’s the license plate number?”

I consult the paperwork.

“P-M—”

“B?”

“No,P—”

“Use call signs!”

“Pterodactyl, mnemonic, three—”

“Fuck’s sake!” She whirls on me, panting, her hair clinging to her clammy forehead. “Three as in ‘T’ or the number?”

She’s a wreck. A nasty little creature with its foot caught in a bear trap. I reach out and take her heavy bag from her, and her whole body sags with relief when I do. She looks hard at my hand on the handle of her bag.

“Click the key fob.”

She stares stupidly at the fob in her hand. She presses a button and the car next to us beeps.

“You need food,” I say. “You’re too tired to drive. I’m tired too. We can stay in a motel somewhere.”

She turns to face me and her eyes glitter dangerously in the night. We’ve been on the ground for half an hour now, but as I look at her murderous expression, there’s that fairground feeling again. Falling, falling, not sure where solid ground is.

“I need to get to Las Vegas,” she grinds out.

This is where a normal, boring person asks why.

But I’m not normal. I’m the calm serial killer who doesn’t raise an eyebrow at his victim’s histrionics. I’m the stranger with secrets who doesn’t ask questions. The con artist who procures plane tickets and executes devious plans. The boy who reaches out to hold a girl’s hand and is delighted to find a closed fist.Thisis why Dodi is letting me tag along.

“Please,” Dodi whispers.

No. She’s not just letting me tag along.

She needed me to take her to Las Vegas. She couldn’t do it on her own.

My exhaustion vanishes. I stow her bag in the trunk of the car while she peels off her sweaty pullover and throws it on the back seat. I take the keys from her and we hurtle down a dark highway, engine keening, music blaring. She lowers the windows, and the wind assaults her hair, and she screams the lyrics to Johnny Cash and Elvis at the top of her lungs. I feel light. I feel free. I feel like a helium balloon slipping away, and my real life is the shrinking child throwing a tantrum on the ground as I soar up, up, up…

I feelalive. I always come alive around Dolores. Grant and Andrew and my temp job—andeverything else—are someone else’s problems.

“I will make youhurt…” she sings.

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