“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 peopleinthe tents he burned?”
Lissa heaves adon’t get me startedbreath. “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. Itdoeslook 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 whereXrefers 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 wegetto 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 outLOSERS = TOASTon 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 networksjustfor 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 thesame. 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 thatAnna Matthewsdoesn’t know how the dark web works and doesn’t care to find out. Still, Lissa’s theory sends a chill through me. Wedoknow 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.
