Page 87 of Serial Killer Games

“Her place? You don’t live together?”

“No. She—” And then I get my stroke of genius, the thing that will distract her completely from the snags in my story and absolve me of my sins. I’m manipulative and terrible.

“We’re not going to rush that because she has a daughter.”

The result is instantaneous: Laura melts. “A daughter?”

I am forgiven.

“She’s six.”

Laura clasps her hands over her heart. “Oh, Jake.”

It’s a tropical paradise in this room now with Laura’s sunny smile, and even Andrew wouldn’t be able to touch it. If hecame back, he’d melt and vanish into the cracks between the floorboards, and that would be the last we ever saw of him.

“Her name is Catriona, but we call her Cat, and…she…likes Barbies.”

Straight to hell. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. This is my birthday dinner with a fake girlfriend for Laura to get emotionally invested in and break her heart over all over again. I feel queasy, but Laura is levitating. There’s no way either of us is finishing our quiche now.

“Can I see photos?”

“I…don’t have any on my phone.”

It’s been a very long time since I’ve seen a smile like this on Laura’s face. Normally she has to borrow her sister-in-law’s grandbabies, but this shiny new Catriona? Her very own proprietary grandniece.

I throw in one last tidbit. “She doesn’t have any living grandparents.”

Laura is deceased. Toes up, flat on her back, ready for the embalming fluids. She flutters off in the direction of the kitchen, and I follow, bringing dishes with me in my good hand. Some deep programming has her plugging in the mixer, pulling out the flour, the butter, the sugar…

“You can’t meet her just yet,” I remind her.

“I know,” Laura says frantically. She wrestles the mixer attachment in place and starts churning the butter and sugar together. There’s no stopping her. An offering of cookies to this absent child is a done deal. I will be leaving with a pound of them tomorrow.

I try to load the dishwasher, but my hand throbs. A speck of blood has been slowly spreading across the gauze bandage all lunch, and soon my whole palm will be soaked.

“I’m going out,” I say, and Laura whirls around on me. “Just to get a new knife,” I clarify. The one I dropped snapped across the middle of the blade. “There are good deals right now.”

I leave her there with her cookie dough and Christmas radio.

—

I get five stitches atthe emergency room from a doctor wearing a Santa hat and whistling “All I Want For Christmas Is You.” I can’t watch. I keep my eyes glued on an empty wheelchair across the room. If Dodi were here, I’d tell her about Tari. I left her in a wheelchair just like that.

“Never much of a wait on Christmas Eve,” the doctor says when she finishes. “Most people having accidents today are too busy to come in.” She bundles me up with gauze, then flips my hand over to look at my white fingers. “Do you need me to look at that too?”

“No.” I yank my hand away.

When I step outside it’s already getting dark. I go to the mall and buy a new knife from an upscale kitchenware store, where the sales team eyes my blood-freckled shirt with wide-eyed concern. If Dodi were here, we would have some fun with them. I pay up, but I’m not ready to go back, although I don’t want to stay at the mall, either. There isn’t a single square inch of space on this planet where I’d like to be right now. Although maybe that’s not true. It’s hard not to think of Dodi’s apartment, specifically the left seat cushion on her lumpy old sofa, while she watches true crime next to me. I wouldn’t mind being there right now.

I pass clothing stores and toy stores, a hair salon, a makeup outlet, a pet store. There are three yellow puppies tussling inone of those vile pet store window display boxes. I slow down and linger. If Dodi were here, I’d tell her I like dogs, but dogs live a long time.

And then I feel something unfamiliar, something I’ve never felt in my life: a tiny, warm hand slipping into mine.

37

Missing Cat

Dodi

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