CHAPTER FOURTEEN
G R A N D P R I Z E.
The short, precise sound of Lesley’s marker dotting the period at the end of the word comes as a relief after the drawn-out squeaking that formed his dramatically large letters.
“Now,” he says, knocking a knuckle against the whiteboard. “Remind me what else the Terror spilled before he turned himself into a human tiki torch?”
I lean my head back against the sofa, grounding myself into the burgundy velvet as I try to remember.
“Something about money,” I say. “Something about, um—”
“Blood,” Grant says for me.
“And being in it to win it. Being the best,” I finish, sitting up. “He said there can only be one.”
“Hmm.” Lesley taps the marker against his chin in thought. It’s uncapped. He realizes this too late, and tsks as he wipes away a smear of red ink. “He sounds like a reality show contestant.”
“Seriously,” says Lissa, who’s slicing up cake on the coffee table. “Did he also tell you he didn’t come here to make friends?”
“I think it was implied,” Grant says.
I thought Lesley and Lissa would be upset about missing the interrogation, but they’ve been in high spirits since we caught them up. It turns out information of any kind, no matter the means of acquisition, is cause for celebration.
I myself am finding it slightly harder to look on the bright side, but I’m trying. “At least he and his classist bullshit won’t be terrorizing London anymore.”
“Oh, it wasn’t about the people for him,” says Lissa.
“It was the tents. We managed to salvage his ID and googled him. Mickey Greenwood; should have been heir to the Greenwood Tent Company, if all the big-box stores hadn’t put his dear old dad out of business.
Seems he went a bit crazy with the whole thing and set out to prove just how inferior those cheap, flammable polyester tents were. ”
Grant frowns. “But … he was aware that there were people in the tents he burned?”
Lissa heaves a don’t get me started breath. “Babes, if you’re going to try arguing with serial killer logic, we’ll be here all day.”
She hands out plates of cake, and I try to be subtle about inspecting it. It does look more edible than most of her previous baking experiments, but that’s a very low bar.
“So, what does all this mean?” I ask. “The serial killer support group has become a serial killer competition?”
Lesley nods. “It would appear that way. Serial Killers Got Talent. The Great British Kill Off. Murder Island.”
“The X Factor, but where X refers to dead people’s eyes,” chimes in Lissa.
“Exactly,” says Lesley, pointing to her for emphasis. He takes a bite of his cake, chews, and swallows with some effort. “Lissanthemum, my dear,” he says gently. “Any chance you’ve mixed up the baking powder and the flour?”
“HA! Trick question. They’re the same thing,” she says, crossing her arms smugly. Grant’s forkful of cake makes an emergency detour to his plate. Lissa’s face falls. “Aren’t they?”
Grant and I shake our heads slowly, and she flops back into the armchair in defeat.
“No matter,” Lesley says, shoveling the rest of his slice into his mouth. “Perfectly good. Thank you, Liss.”
“Can we get back to the matters at hand, please?” I ask. “You know, the more pressing, lethal ones?”
“Debatable. You didn’t try the cake,” murmurs Grant.
“So Mr. Page is inviting serial killers to compete for some prize,” I say, ignoring Grant.
I’ve been on edge since last night, impatient for answers.
Maybe it’s because we’re racing the clock in more ways than one.
Maybe I just want to know I didn’t watch a guy cook himself for nothing.
It’d be nice to have some semblance of closure before Grant and I have to jump ship.
Before we get to jump ship, I mean.
“We have all these people trying to prove they’re the best serial killer. And when they fail—”
“He eliminates them,” Lesley finishes. He uncaps his marker to squeak out LOSERS = TOAST on the whiteboard and begins pacing. “Until which point they’re still in the running for a cash prize. Interesting. What do serial killers want with money?”
“Probably to expand their operations,” says Lissa. “Think of the murder tools a fortune could buy.”
“I’d rather not,” mutters Grant, eyes shut as if hoping to nap through this.
“This whole Facebook thing,” I say. “Why’s he doing it this way? Seems awfully public for people whose entire job description is to fly under the radar.”
“Well, there aren’t exactly social networks just for serial killers,” says Lissa. “Unless … are there? On the dark web or something?”
Lesley grunts in thought, then retrieves his phone from his pocket.
After a few moments of tapping and squinting, he frowns.
“Well, I’ve switched it to dark mode, but everything looks the same.
Here, one of you young things try.” He chucks the phone and I catch it right before it hits Grant in the temple.
Now Grant speaks up. “If this guy knew how the dark web worked, don’t you think he’d be hosting the competition there instead of a regular Facebook page?”
“Unless he wants to hide in plain sight,” Lissa points out.
More likely, it’s just that Anna Matthews doesn’t know how the dark web works and doesn’t care to find out.
Still, Lissa’s theory sends a chill through me.
We do know that Mr. Page is keeping close tabs on all these murders somehow, lurking in the wings.
That must be why he’s asking for murder details before they happen—so he can judge them, and eliminate contestants if need be.
He’s always aware, always watching, like an evil Santa Claus.
The Terror, delusional as he may have been, was right about one thing: Mr. Page could be anyone. If Grant and I are playing roles to gain access to these crime-scenes-to-be, who’s to say Mr. Page isn’t doing the same?
Lissa interrupts my train of thought, reminding Lesley that he has to get going. “Amateur forensics seminar,” she explains to us. “Always furthering his education, bless him.”
“Which is more than the police can say,” Lesley adds, looking uncharacteristically minimalist as he shrugs a black blazer over his white oxford shirt. Only when he turns to leave do I see the giant bedazzled skull and crossbones on his back.
“Thank you for the … food,” he calls to Lissa on his way out, as if physically incapable of calling it cake. “Best count me out for dinner, not sure when I’ll be back. Got to stop and stencil a kid playing jacks with ninja stars somewhere.”
“You’re not Banksy!” Grant calls after him, but the door swings shut with no response.
After Grant excuses himself to take a migraine pill and stare at the ceiling in his room, Lissa sighs and starts collecting the dessert plates. She stops when she notices me still perched on the couch with my arms crossed and sinks into the armchair opposite.
“You okay, babes?” she asks gently. “Last night was a lot, huh?”
“Yeah. Well … that’s not quite it,” I confess. She tilts her head and leans forward, listening. She’d make a great therapist—one of those cool, disarming ones who wear lime-green hoop earrings and sunflower-dotted Doc Martens to show how relatable and safe they are.
“I don’t like murder,” I say, a disclaimer I’ve never found necessary before. “And I’d love to never witness a voluntary spontaneous human combustion again. It’s just, gory details aside …” I suck in a breath, unsure how to word this. “Am I a psychopath for thinking it was all … I don’t know …”
“Fun?”
Lissa looks at me with a knowing twinkle in her eye, and relief whooshes out of me.
“Yes,” I say, my tense shoulders dropping. “I know Grant’s completely traumatized, and I probably should be too. And I should definitely be taking a cocktail of antibiotics after that bite. But honestly, it was such a rush for a minute there. Is that horrible?”
She smiles at me. “If you’re a psychopath, welcome to the club. I fucking love this stuff.”
She rises from her chair and pauses, her grin turning mischievous. “Also, nothing kicks up the adrenaline like a handsome sidekick, am I right?”
Not this again. “Grant’s not my sidekick. We’re kind of just … I don’t know, teammates.”
“Please. The fighter’s always the hero; the brains is the sidekick.” I open my mouth to protest the insinuation that I’m brainless, but she keeps going. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you when you’re training, like he just wants to impress you. It’s so cute.”
“No, I think that’s just how his face is. It’s his I don’t want to die face.”
“Hmm.” She picks up the last of the plates, pensively scraping its crumbling contents onto the stack of others.
“I’m just saying. High stakes, good-looking guy …
Wouldn’t be surprised if it all generates a little heat.
Maybe the crime-chasing isn’t the only fun to be had.
” She flashes me a grin. “Think about it.”
With that, that life-size Polly Pocket swans out of the room whistling.
· · ·
WITH NO NEWS from the West Brompton Book Club, we do our best to prepare for whatever’s next.
I spend my days with Grant in the garden, showing him things like how to throw a good punch and how to saw through zip ties with his shoelaces.
Lesley and Lissa busy themselves with sleuthing, combing former crime scenes and Facebook for missed clues.
In our downtime, Lesley lights a fire in the study and we fall into an unspoken routine.
He settles in with a true crime podcast and Lissa searches Pinterest for recipes she thinks she can pull off.
Grant spends most of his time frowning at his phone but occasionally breaks to annihilate me at Bananagrams.
Now and then Lesley ditches us for panel discussions and workshops, and sometimes Lissa leaves for hot dates at edgy bars with names like Textile or Illicit or Shoe—usually hinting on her way out that some others of us could do with a romantic night out, at which point I try to hit her with a pillow.
Thankfully, Grant tends to be too immersed in doomscrolling to notice.
But most often, it’s peaceful and quiet—the four of us in the study, just waiting.
And it’s driving me up the goddamn wall.
It’s not that I want more attempted murder.
But as Anna’s first bookstore event looms, we get closer to leaving this story a who-less whodunit.
Every morning, I find Lesley and ask, “Anything?” And every morning, he shakes his head and says something like, “Nada, Rox ’n’ Roll,” and the tumbleweed of angst in my stomach gets a little bigger.
Meanwhile, Grant only gets more upbeat. Well, upbeat is a strong word. But he spends less time grumbling and more time honing his focus in our self-defense lessons. He seems so determined, buoyed by our upcoming chance at escape. Guilt kicks me in the shins for feeling any differently.
By the day of Anna’s event, I’m lugging around the world’s worst case of anticipatory FOMO and Grant is literally whistling his way downstairs.
I don’t want to be the storm cloud that rains on his parade, so I take a bracing breath and force some pep into my step as I join him in the kitchen.
He’s on the phone, holding it wedged between his ear and shoulder while he butters his toast. His scholarly look has a slightly more casual spin today, a navy sweater layered over a T-shirt instead of a button-up.
He’s neatened up his scruff a bit, making it more of a style choice and less a manifestation of fatigue.
From the sound of it, he’s talking to whoever’s covering his classes at BU; I hear talk of syllabi and modules and other things I can tell he gets revved up about.
When he looks at me, I flash him a smile and, for some reason, two thumbs up.
His brow quirks in puzzlement as he slides me a cup of coffee.
“Really, thank you guys for everything,” he says into the phone. “I’m feeling a lot better. Hopefully it won’t be too much longer. Hey, how’s Arthur? You think he misses me?”
He shoots me a glare, which makes me realize I must have rolled my eyes out loud. Then he freezes, his butter knife held in midair.
“No, sorry,” he says abruptly. “No visitors allowed. Contagion and whatnot.”
I sneak a look at my phone while he wraps up his call.
Admittedly, I never got around to notifying HillCare that I wouldn’t be coming back.
But none of them ever reached out, not even to fire me.
Not even to see if I was alive. I wonder what it must be like to work with people who’d miss you if you were gone.
Grant finally hangs up the phone and stares at it for a second. “I am so lucky I work with the most gullible guy to ever earn a master’s.”
“Sounds like a good friend,” I say. “Covering your classes and feeding your cat?”
“That’s Steve for you. The whole department, really. Apparently, they wanted to plan a group outing to see me in the hospital. It’s almost too bad—assuming everything really does reset when this is over and they forget I was ever gone—they’d throw a hell of a welcome-back party otherwise.”
It’s so strange to imagine the past week being wiped from existence when this thing ends.
As if I never met Jack or stole an Uber.
As if I never stood here with Grant, counting the lines where his forehead creases up in thought, hearing the crunch of his toast as he cuts it into even triangles.
I have bruises on my arm from where he’s accidentally clipped me in training.
Will they disappear? Will there be any evidence at all once we go back to a world where I had no one to flee and Grant Ubered home without incident?
I think of that world—the one where I’m constantly looking for my next escape, and Grant’s going to work and trivia nights and parties without me—and it feels odd and unfamiliar, the way home feels a little off after a life-changing trip.
“So,” I say, trying to sound casual yet enthusiastic and probably failing at both. “Big day today. Anna Matthews, here we come.”
“Mm,” says Grant, studying his toast before taking a bite.
“You have the event tickets, right?”
He nods. “Signed us up our first day here.”
“Good. Great. So then we’ll just go tonight. And figure it all out. At the place, with Anna Matthews.”
He eyes me and the coffee he made me, probably wondering if he should take it back. “What’s up with you?”
“Me? I—”
Before I can stutter out a suitable response—not that I know what one would be—the French doors from the patio bang open. Lesley struts in, pointing to us with a wicked gleam in his eyes.
“Rooooooxgrant,” he croons in a pitchy imitation of Sting. He pauses for dramatic effect, then announces, “Big day today.”