THE DREADED FRIDAY has arrived. The effort of trying to think of and guard against every possible murder method has drained me.

In the morning, I decide to bake a lemon chocolate cake. I’m not a fan of the cake because I don’t like cakes in general and Jack isn’t a fan of it either because he doesn’t like lemon, but the rest of our group loves it, and baking it usually helps me unwind.

As I’m grating the lemon peel, my phone rings. I assume it’s one of my friends with a last-minute point of anguish.

But no. To my surprise, it’s Peter Marrick, the news anchor.

“I just wanted to thank you for coming on the show,” he says. “You were great. And your friends, too. Captivating, all of you.”

“Thank you. It was fun doing it.”

He then asks me if I’d like to have dinner with him some time, adding, “I so rarely meet anyone I find interesting.”

He meets politicians, actors, scientists, some of the most important and powerful people in the world. I’m a little confused by his compliment, though I tell him I’d be happy to have dinner with him. He asks if tonight would work.

“Oh, I can’t tonight,” I reply. “I’ve got something I wish I could get out of, but it’s impossible. Though I could have dinner another night.” Unless a murder takes place, in which case it might be some time before I’m up for dating.

“How about tomorrow night?”

“Ah . . . tomorrow is not ideal either,” I say, thinking I may have to stay in bed all day and evening to recover from tonight’s stress. Or we may need tomorrow to hide the body. Or to prevent Lily from killing the killer. Or to deal with any number of other possible horrifications. “I can do Sunday, though. Or next week.”

We settle on Sunday.

I get back to my cake. As I mix the ingredients, I think about how nice that was, talking to Peter Marrick. And rare. Ever since I’ve been wearing my disguise, men simply haven’t shown any interest in me romantically—not that Peter Marrick’s interest is likely to be romantic, actually.

Chapter Ten

When I’m done with the cake, I lock up all my cutlery, my hammer, my screwdrivers, and anything else that could be used as a weapon, such as items made of glass, that could, in a split second, be smashed and slashed across Strad’s throat. I bought plastic cutlery and paper cups and plates for the dinner.

AT SEVEN, MY friends arrive, as planned. Strad is supposed to get here at 7:30 p.m., and the danger is supposed to start at eight. I thought it was best to get Strad here well in advance of the danger so that if he’s running a bit late, he won’t risk being assassinated on his way here by a hired gunman.

I frisk my friends carefully and then search them with the metal detector, which I practiced using on the NYU students yesterday. Everyone is wearing pants, as I’d instructed. No one sets off the metal detector, which means they didn’t conceal razor blades on or in their bodies. It’s nice to know I won’t have to worry about them whipping out a razor blade when they go to the bathroom. I will only have to worry about them whipping out a piece of broken glass encased in a nonmetal tube inserted in their bodies in the fashion of a tampon or suppository. Frisking them every time they exit the bathroom should be enough to guard against such a danger. Metal detecting won’t be necessary again.

I confiscate bags, cell phones, and shoes.

I then stand before my friends and say, “I want you to be extremely vigilant this evening. The killer could be swift. Be on the lookout for any abrupt movements from any of you, and be prepared to pounce. If the killer is Jack, we should be particularly alert because he’s stronger than the rest of us and will be more difficult to restrain.” They all nod, including Jack.

I continue with, “The rules are: No one goes near the kitchen area; no one near the food before it is served; from the moment it’s served until Strad has finished eating, we should all keep a close eye on Strad’s plate and glass to be sure nobody puts anything in them; everyone stays in the living room at all times, no wandering in the rest of the apartment; and nobody goes to the bathroom unaccompanied.”

They all nod again. “Sounds good,” Jack says.

“Oh, and let’s not forget to try to act natural, for Lily’s sake,” I say. “We don’t want him to think her friends are weirdos.”

“I appreciate that,” Lily says.

“Even if we’re weirdos, we’re still the Knights of Creation and he knows it,” Georgia says, scornfully.

We wait for Strad as 7:30 approaches. It comes and goes. We look at one another. At 7:45 p.m., I instruct Lily to call his cell phone. She does, on speakerphone. He says he’s on his way, had to take a cab because there’s a problem with the subway.

I stare at my cuckoo clock as eight o’clock nears. I ask Lily to call him again. She does, again on speaker. He says he’s two blocks away, that maybe he’ll get out of the cab and walk the rest of the way because there’s traffic.

“No!” I exclaim. If he’s out on the street alone when eight o’clock strikes, who knows what could happen, what the killer might have planned. “No,” I repeat, more calmly, and whisper: “Tell him not to worry, to stay in the taxi until it reaches my building.”

She tells him this. He says he’s now one block away. It’s three minutes before eight. He says he’ll see us soon. He says he can’t wait. Lily hangs up.

I stare at my intercom, waiting for the doorman to buzz me. Finally, he does. It’s Adam, and he softly says to me, “You clownish fool, someone is here to see you, don’t ask me why. His name is Strad. I don’t envy him. He’s in for quite—”

“Send him up,” I say, having no time for his disorder right now.

“Jee-zuss!”

“Real fast, please,” I add.

“Fine, cunt,” he says, and hangs up.

I look at the clock. We’ve got two minutes left before the danger starts.

Ten seconds left. He’s still not here.

“CUCKOO!” shrieks the bird eight times at eight o’clock.

I hear a grim voice in my head saying, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, let the games begin.”

Ten minutes go by, and still no Strad. Perhaps he got lost in the building. This is a common problem in my building, which is huge and consists of four towers, requiring visitors to take two elevators, which are separated by a long hallway and some turns.

I tell Lily this, to reassure her. She nods, chewing her lip.

Strad finally arrives at 8:11 p.m. and sheepishly confesses to me in the entrance hall that he got lost in the building.

“Yes, it’s very complicated,” Georgia calls out from the living room, her sarcasm unfair because it is.

Strad is carrying a shoulder bag, a violin case, a bunch of mixed flowers, and a bottle of red wine. He hands me the flowers and wine. “Thank you so much for inviting me,” he says, following me into the living room. “You can’t imagine how . . .” He stops mid-sentence as he steps across the threshold. He gazes around the living room at the masked and costumed furry mannequins. “Wow. Amazing. Wow.”

“Aw, we love eloquent guests,” Georgia says.

“Your decor is spectacular,” Strad says to me.

“Thank you,” I say.

He puts down his bag and violin case. He notices that none of us is wearing shoes, so he takes his off and puts them by the door.

Then he goes straight for Georgia. “Man, what an honor it is to finally meet you!” He takes her hand in both of his.

“Thank you,” she says.

“No, thank you. For all your books. Spending this evening with you will be such a blast.”

“A blast, possibly.” She turns to the rest of us and asks, “Did we cover that possibility? That it might be a blast?”