Beautiful Graves(14)

The first thing I do after brushing my teeth is check my laptop to see if there are any answers on Craigslist. There is one. It’s a private message. My heart flips like a fish out of water. I click on it.

DominicG: Hey. I’m pretty sure your cat is crashing on my balcony recliner.

Loki? Crashing somewhere else? Wouldn’t he be scared? Then it occurs to me this guy could be a creeper trying to lure women into his apartment.

EverlynneL: Thanks for the message. Can I see a picture, please?

I stand up to do something with my body, then go to the kitchen and make myself some coffee. I’m restless. I’m anxious. I forget to put creamer and sugar in my coffee before making my way back to the laptop in my living room.

DominicG sent you an attachment. I open it. It’s a picture of a picture. Of a frosted-over lake.

EverlynneL: Hilarious. I meant of the cat.

DominicG: Tough audience. Coming right up.

He sends another attachment. I open it, praying to God it isn’t a dick pic, and sure enough, it is Loki, in the flesh (or rather, fur), sitting on an expensive-looking recliner in a balcony of what looks like a fairly upscale downtown apartment block. He stares into the camera defiantly. It must be him, because I can recognize those chins anywhere, and also because a part of his left ear is missing. The girl at the shelter told me an older cat ripped it out the day I adopted him. It was one of the reasons I chose him, in fact. I loved the fact Loki and I had something in common. We were both a little damaged.

Wait . . . he got all the way downtown?

EverlynneL: Do you live downtown?

DominicG: Yeah.

EverlynneL: And you just . . . woke up and found him there?

DominicG: Actually, I came back home late at night and heard scratches coming from the balcony. When I opened the door, he was there. He looked healthy, but I still gave him milk (that’s okay, right? I’ve never had a cat, but I know they like milk. From cartoons, mostly). He slept somewhere in my apartment. Then when I woke up today he scratched the balcony door again. I let him out. And that’s where he’s been chilling for the last couple hours. I think he likes it here. Great view and lots of sun.

I tend to believe this guy. What are the chances that he broke into my house to steal my cat and waited until I posted about it on Craigslist just so he could lure me into his place? If he had any weird ideas, he would have murdered me in my own apartment. Or kidnapped me instead of the cat. Or not have left an internet paper trail, corresponding with me here. Clearly, I need to stop listening to true-crime podcasts. My mind drifts to terrible places when unattended.

EverlynneL: Can I pick him up?

DominicG: You can and should.

EverlynneL: Can you do noon-ish? I need to wait for my roommate and her boyfriend to come with me (no offense, but I can’t take any chances that you’re an axe murderer).

I think about Joe’s axe-murderer joke from six years ago and want to throw up, like it happened yesterday.

DominicG: I start a shift in a couple hours, so noon doesn’t work (and none taken, although let the record show that if I were a murderer, an axe wouldn’t be my first choice of weapon. Too messy. Poison, however . . . ).

I find myself smiling, despite myself. It’s the first time I’ve smiled in a very long time. This guy has jokes. And good punctuation. Both, my dark little heart can appreciate. I decide to take a chance. He sounds normal. If he opens the door and looks off, I’ll run (sorry, Loki).

EverlynneL: Okay. Can I pick him up now, then?

DominicG: Give me twenty.

EverlynneL: Thanks.

DominicG: Pick up doughnuts on your way here.

EverlynneL: Excuse me?

DominicG forwards me a copy of my post.

DominicG: Says right here. REWARD. Doughnuts are my reward.

I’m encouraged by his odd request. No murderer I’ve ever heard of ever left a half-eaten box of Dunkies at the scene of the crime. And I listen to a lot of morbid podcasts.

EverlynneL: Cheap date. Noted.

DominicG: Glazed. The real stuff. No strawberry frost or chocolate. Any of those fake, pretentious doughnuts.

EverlynneL: Fine. Just don’t be an axe murderer.

DominicG: No promises.





FOUR


Dominic lives on historic Chestnut Street, which confirms my suspicion that he is, as my dad likes to put it, doing well for himself.

He mentioned something about coming home in the middle of the night in our conversation. I bet he is the clubbing type. I buzz when I reach his building. It’s a black multiapartment complex that looks luxurious and understated at the same time. It sticks out like a sore thumb in the middle of the redbrick street: a giant modern middle finger.

Dominic buzzes me up but doesn’t answer when I hit the intercom. I cringe, balancing the box of doughnuts in my hand. If this is how I die, it’s going to be a sad way to go. In the elevator on my way up, I shoot Nora a quick message, explaining that someone answered my Craigslist post, and that I’m picking Loki up at this address. The elevator dings. I tuck my phone into the back pocket of my jeans and pour myself out once I reach his floor, heading for apartment number 911, of all numbers.

I knock on the door. It swings open immediately, like the person behind it has been waiting.

And the person behind it is . . . well, obnoxiously, freakishly, creepily perfect.

Dominic stares back at me with eyes the color of marble. The gray and blue swirl together, fighting for dominance. His hair is cut short and neat. The geometry of his face is so precise, so sculpted, he almost looks like a different species. A better species, to be sure. He’s the kind of beautiful that makes someone become a douchebag. A young Alain Delon doppelg?nger, if I had to describe him.