Page 75 of Serial Killer Games

I lift the lid off the Dutch oven to see what sort of disgusting bachelor special he’s whipped up, and an unexpectedly savory aroma steams upward. Stew.

“She’s not going to eat it,” I say triumphantly.

He gives me a look, as if that’s a challenge accepted. He lifts the Dutch oven and carries it into the dining area. I trail after him and stop in my tracks. Place mats, cutlery, trivets—all laid out with geometric correctness. My table has never looked like this. And that’s not all. My mouth falls open.

My sofa looks…orderly, the cushions smoothed, the blankets folded. The coffee table is cleared and the windowsills, too. Everything feels brighter and fresher. I smell citrus cleaner. I look down. He’svacuumed. I bolt across the living room and stick my nose into my bedroom. My bed looks like it was made up by a hotel maid. My suitcase is missing from thefloor, and with my heart in my throat I stomp into the laundry nook. It’s taken so much work putting together a proper wardrobe on a shoestring budget, cobbling together consignment clothing and sale items, and if thatidiot—

But he didn’t. My hang-dry clothes are hanging and drying exactly as per their care instructions.

I circle back to the dining area.

“What the hell did you do to my apartment?” I hiss, willing myself to feel angry. He overstepped. He definitely overstepped. “I didn’t give you permission to clean!”

Jake gives me a blank look. “Did you like the filth?” he asks without inflection.

Fury gives way to mortification and then swings back to fury again. But before I can clap back, Cat materializes and plunks herself audibly into a chair. He ladles stew into her bowl and tosses a roll at her like he’s feeding a creature in a zoo, and she digs in.

She actually digs in.

This has never happened. I’ve never succeeded in creating this tableau of domestic dinnertime bliss. It’s always fights and hunger strikes, ending with Cat eating crackers on the floor while I eat directly from the stovetop with a swig of cooking wine to cool my nerves.

I watch Cat in wonder. She chews. She swallows. A physiological miracle.

Jake ladles stew into my bowl and then his. My stomach growls and I cover it with a cough and reluctantly take a seat. We’re all dead quiet for a minute, but there’s something so hokey and normal about this scene, the actors can’t help slipping into their roles. In his apron, Jake the homemaker serves food and mops up Cat’s soup splatter and reminds her to try a parsnip. And I, in my rumpled end-of-day business attire,slip into the role of disciplinarian head of household. I clear my throat.

“I spoke to your teacher on the phone this morning,” I say to Cat. “She said you and Charlotte got into a tussle.”

Cat stiffens.

“She says you apologized very nicely.”

Cat stares at her plate, nostrils flaring.

“Cat?”

“The teacher made me apologize! It was Charlotte’s fault,” Cat says venomously. “She always starts it!”

“Exactly!” I say. “You can’t let a teacher strong-arm you into saying you’re sorry. Saying you’re sorry is an admission of guilt.” I’m on her side, but right now she’s looking at me like I’m attacking her. Her little claws come out so quickly. I don’t know why she’s like this.

Cat scowls at me, and I know it’s going to be silent treatment for the rest of the evening, but then Jake butts in.

“Legally, it’s not actually an admission of guilt in Canada.”

The land of people who apologize if you punch them in the face. But that’s not the point.

“This isn’t a legal matter,” I say through gritted teeth. “It’s the principle of the thing. I’m not raising my daughter to smile sweetly and play nice and turn the other cheek.”

“But Charlotte’s an evil little bully, and she’s going to figure out that ifshesays sorry and Cat doesn’t, Cat will wind up looking like a sociopath to the teachers. Your approach is going to screw her over.”

Cat looks up at him with her mouth open. Jake has no idea how to talk in front of a six-year-old.

Jake continues. “If you want her to protect her principles, she can say, ‘Are you all right?’ It demonstrates concern but doesn’tassume responsibility.” He butters a bun slowly and carefully and tosses it to Cat. The first bun has already vanished.

“You’re overstepping,” I say frostily, but next to me, Cat studies him with intelligent eyes.

“And I don’t have to actually care if she’s all right?” she confirms.

“Of course not,” Jake scoffs. “You have to be clever with bullies. Don’t let them realize you’re fighting back. Study them and outsmart them. Keep notes. Make a list and stay focused.”

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