CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The empty, abandoned setting makes sense now, seeing Lissa; it suits her. All of her bubbly warmth is gone, replaced by something infinitely darker. Her mischievous grin is now a cold, hard line, her eyes flashing like knives. In her manicured hands, she holds Lesley’s guns—one aimed at each of us.
“I’d say you can hang up the phone,” she says. “But probably best not to reach for anything just now, yeah?” She gives a little smile that drips with faux apology. “I did say I’d see you again soon.”
Her words echo from the walls, tumbling alone through the shell of the station. She raises her eyebrows at us, waiting for a response. We’re speechless. I stare at her, not blinking, hands fisted. My pulse thrums in my ears.
She lets out an exasperated sigh. “You’re not even going to ask how? That’s disappointing. I’m rather proud, after all—quite a glass ceiling I’ve shattered. All this time, you were looking for a man.” She giggles coldly. “It’s not Mister Page, you idiots. It’s M. R. Page. Melissa. Rhea.”
Her name cuts the air like a saber, leaving dead silence in its wake until she adds, “And then Page, because, you know. Like a book. Book club. Get it?” She looks from one of us to the other as if expecting kudos.
“Why,” is all I say, my voice unnaturally low.
Her eyes flicker, lips pursed as if considering how to answer.
“You remember that man I loved?” she asks.
“The one who abandoned me? Craig. He was the beginning.
See, before him, I was a disgrace—desperate for love, begging to be chosen.
Pitiful. Even after he chucked me, I had this delusional hope.
I showed up at his flat the next day, expecting an apology.
Any show of remorse would have done, but no.
He looked right through me, dismissed me like I was nothing.
Not a human with a beating heart and hurt feelings. An insect. A nuisance.
“But I couldn’t leave him like that, thinking he’d won. And so, I decided if he refused to regret how he’d treated me …” She sighs, melts into a wistful smile. “Then I’d have to make him.”
She cringes, all but saying Oops. “I did sort of lose it on him, poor bloke. But what I learned about myself in that moment—standing over his body, his blood on my hands, and feeling lighter, feeling free—well, that was priceless. I wanted more. I thought of everyone else who’d ever done me wrong—the exes who’d cheated, the teachers who’d failed me, the baristas who’d given me decaf—and I took them out one by one.
I’d never felt so alive. It’s a beautiful thing, finding your passion.
“But it’s also a lonely thing, particularly when you can’t tell anyone about it. That’s the downfall of many killers; they’re so desperate for someone else to recognize their brilliance that they start showing off or leaving hints for the cops, and before you know it, they’re caught.
“I’m smarter than that. I tried to find a workaround, some way to share my talents without giving myself away.
I thought about an anonymous podcast or blog, but that seemed too risky.
I tried fictionalizing things; I wrote up my story as a novel under a pseudonym and pitched it to my book club.
But they panned it. So after I killed them all, I moved on to plan B. ”
“A new book club,” I say hollowly. “A fake one, full of people like you.”
“Exactly,” she says, beaming. “A support group for serial killers. A place where we could connect, lift each other up, share our wins with people who understood. It wasn’t easy at first; hard to track down people who prefer to lie low.
But eventually, with a lot of networking and some good old word of mouth, it grew into the beautiful thing it is today: a thriving community bonded by a love of revenge. ”
“Revenge for what?” I say. “Most of the killers we encountered just seemed to be doing it for kicks.”
Lissa exhales sadly. “You would say that,” she says.
“You were determined to see them as nothing but bloodthirsty monsters. But if you’d looked closer, if you’d gotten to know them like I did, you’d have known better.
You’d have seen them for who they really were, people seeking justice: Howard, who’d have been a business mogul had his takeaway deliveryman not given him food poisoning the night before his GMAT.
Vincent, the cyclist who grew tired of seeing his favorite routes overrun by tourists.
And Jack, dumped one too many times by romance readers with impossible standards.
” She rolls her eyes. “Personally, I’m glad you offed him.
What a whiner. As if respect, communication, and not killing your dates are unrealistic standards. ”
God. I hate when horrible people make really good points.
“This doesn’t explain the competition,” says Grant.
“I’m getting there,” Lissa says, as if Grant’s impatience is the greatest offense being committed here.
“See, things were all well and good in the group for a while. It was meant to be a mutually beneficial operation: a safe space to show off in so that we didn’t feel the need to go elsewhere.
But over time, that wasn’t quite enough.
People were getting cocky—taunting the police with magazine cut-out letters, leaving crucial evidence behind.
One guy even left his phone at the crime scene; that’s how Lesley caught on.
“Now, a lesser mind might have thought the answer was to take Lesley out. But not me. I did some digging and found out he’d placed an ad for a personal assistant.
What an opportunity, I thought. He could unwittingly lead me toward new recruits, while I could put him just far enough off the scent to keep the group secure. Voilà. A dream team was born.
“But that didn’t solve the root issue, the reason my colleagues were slipping up. It was that same old occupational hazard: the killer’s craving for notoriety. And if just one of us got caught, it would be bad news for us all.
“It was then that I had an epiphany, watching The Voice one night: is there any greater acclaim than being declared the best by a leader in your field? If you have something to compete for, aren’t you a lot less likely to go looking for recognition elsewhere?
And so it began: an incentive for my fellow killers to stay focused.
To keep their eye on the prize, so to speak; money, yes, but more importantly, the honor of being the greatest.”
“And I assume the prize money was stolen from Lesley,” I say.
“Partly,” she says. “The perks of a rich employer with terrible cybersecurity. But I did also charge an entrance fee for competitors. And I waived it for any who doubled as hackers, if they helped me drain my own victims’ accounts.
” She spreads her arms wide, triumphant.
“I like to think of myself as the ultimate girlboss.”
“Really?” I say. “Because I think of you as an abhorrent snake.”
She smiles. “Tomato, tomato.”
“Man, that is not going to translate to print,” Grant mutters.
“Anyway,” Lissa continues. “That about brings us to now: the big conclusion. Time to declare a winner.”
“Which makes no sense,” I say. “Why would you invite us to the finale? This was a contest for serial killers. Grant and I weren’t competing.”
She gives me a long, pitying smile—the kind only given to the hopelessly naive. “I’m afraid,” she says slowly, “you’ll have to speak for yourself there, babes.”
The word silence doesn’t seem enough to describe the moment following those words. It’s as if the whole platform has suddenly stopped breathing.
“Those romance goggles you’ve got on—big help to me,” says Lissa. “Kept you distracted enough to never guess what I was up to. But as it turns out, that’s not all they blinded you to.
“See, I’m the big bad guy, sure,” she says flippantly, like it’s old news.
“But I think you’ll find the real plot twist in my coat pocket.
” She moves as if to retrieve something, then realizes she’s still holding the guns and sighs.
“Be a dear and fetch my phone out, will you, Rox? Got my hands a bit full.”
I glance at Grant, whose eyes burn bright at Lissa under his pinched brow. With my spine tingling, I slowly walk to Lissa and do as she asked.
She tells me her passcode, then directs me to open her Facebook messages. MR Page’s Facebook messages. And there, at the top, is a thread from Grant Hoffman.
Lissa nods to me. “Read them aloud, would you?”
I take one more bewildered glance at Grant and clear my throat, then read the messages one by one.
- We need to talk. I know who you are.
- I know you’re Mr. Page. I know what you’re doing, and I want in. I can win this thing. Let me prove it.
- I killed Jack, Lissa. I killed the Pulverizer. I killed Lesley. Do you know the difference between them and me? I’m smart, I’m careful and I’m still alive. Give me a chance.
- I’ll take Roxie down. Watch me trick her, and *then* try and tell me I’m not the best.
The phone falls from my hand, hitting the floor with an echoing clatter.
“I know,” says Lissa. “I was as surprised as you are when I got these messages yesterday. Anxious, bumbling Grant? Who knew he had it in him?”
Grant turns his fiery gaze on me. “Roxie—”
“Oh, no, allow me,” says Lissa. “Let’s see if I’ve got this straight.
See, Grant here started out as so many of us do: as a miserable, lonely loser with no power or purpose.
That all changed one fateful night when he accidentally smashed poor little Jack Smith’s skull.
Only—was it an accident? Could it have been, if it felt that good?
If deep down, even before the fatal blow landed, he knew he could stop himself but he just … didn’t … want to?
“And then he met me and Lesley and learned about the Facebook group, and suddenly he realized: He wasn’t alone.
There were others like him—people brought to life by the thrill of the kill.
And then when he found there was a competition underway, well.
Classic Grant, really: always has to be right, always has to be better than you.
How could he resist the chance to be the very best? ”
She grins at Grant, who looks like he could incinerate her with his eyes.
“See, Grant, there’s just one problem,” Lissa says, refocusing one of the guns at him.
“It’s one thing to deceive your intended target.
Trickery is a time-honored tenet of serial murder, of course.
But to lead me on, acting the part of Lesley’s little crime fighter when you were a hopeful competitor all along—to pull the wool over my eyes, within my own operation?
I can’t allow that. The community I’ve built is based on trust. That’s why you could never belong, let alone be the best.”
“But you, Roxie.” She beams, pointing at me in a way that I think would seem complimentary were it not for the gun in her hand.
“You might just have what it takes. You’re a wild card, for sure, but I know raw talent when I see it.
Undefeated against some of my most promising contestants.
Bold. Fearless. And most of all: You’re like me.
You know now what it is to be betrayed by a man, to let your heart get the better of you.
Now, maybe you don’t have the requisite killing track record, but that’s a technicality. And it’s never too late to start.
“So, here’s your opportunity,” she says. “I could shoot you both and call this whole thing a failed experiment. Or—”
With a dramatic flair, she swings the arm pointed at me over to Grant so that both guns are now trained on him. His hands fly up in defense.
“I could just shoot Grant, on your orders. You can take back your power and join me in showing the world what becomes of a woman scorned. So what do you say? Shall I put an end to this fuckwit and we’ll kick off your vengeance career with a bang?”
She cocks the guns, the clicks echoing loudly in the tunnel, and turns one back to me. “Or will you go down together?” Back and forth she points the gun—to Grant, to me, to Grant again. “Do you want to be all Romeo and Juliet about this, or leave that shit in the books where it belongs?”
From where I stand, so close to her, and with both guns pointed away from me, I could knock them from her hands. I could disarm her and find my way out of this mess with a third option.
Instead, I look to Grant, who’s glaring incredulously at Lissa. He looks at me. The romance hero. The love interest. The man who fought with me and for me, who listened to my secrets and told me his own, who jumped when I jumped. Together.
The man who lied, says Lissa. Right to my face. Over and over.
“Do it,” I say. “Take the shot.”
Her lips slide into a victorious smile, her arms outstretched and braced to kill.
She doesn’t even look at him as she pulls the trigger.