Love in the Time of Serial Killers(16)

I rubbed my temples, giving the slightest shake of my head.

“That’s okay,” he said. “Mine has all the cool stuff loaded on it. And Shani has this statue of a Buddha that’s really personally meaningful to her—”

“I’m not Buddhist,” Shani said sheepishly, “but my cross-country coach in high school gave it to me, and she said—”

“It’s not huge,” Conner put in, “like, it could easily fit in the corner of the living room if we moved those bins of Christmas stuff. Oh, and we’ll also bring Hank, of course, but he takes up almost no room, just any flat surface that can handle ten pounds—”

“Ten gallons,” Shani corrected, “which is closer to eighty pounds. But babe, we can always bring the table we have Hank on now . . .”

This was getting out of hand. “Who is Hank?”

The room fell silent as both Conner and Shani looked at me, the expression on their faces almost like . . . betrayal. Like they couldn’t believe I would even ask that question and I had a lot to learn, honey.

“Hank is our goldfish,” Conner said. “We won him at the county fair last year?”

“They say those ones never last,” Shani said, “but Hank’s hardy.”

“Well, and we take care of him,” Conner said. “Most people just feed their fish any old flakes, but we’ve been ordering—”

“Okay, stop,” I said. “Hank is not moving in here.”

That sounded harsh, and unfairly prejudiced against the fish. In fact, Hank had the best chance of moving in here of the three of them. I started over. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the offer. I do. I’ll need your help with the house for sure, and I’m really . . .” Ugh, the next part was as close to touchy-feely as I got, and I felt the words lodge in my throat. “. . . loving getting the chance to get to spend more time with both of you. But I have this dissertation to work on, and I really need a lot of peace and quiet for that, and—”

Conner frowned. “But that’s what I’m talking about. You’re holed up in here, reading about grisly murders and then getting paranoid about your neighbor . . .”

“I’m not paranoid!” I said. “And it’s not about the neighbor. Whose name is Sam, by the way.”

“I remember,” Conner said. “I believe your exact words the other day were, ‘Sam, comma, Son of.’?”

“That was a joke,” I said. “Obviously I don’t think my neighbor is an actual serial killer. First of all, there aren’t even any unsolved murders around here that appear connected. And second of all . . .”

Conner raised his eyebrows, waiting. I could tell he hadn’t been impressed with my first piece of evidence, although he should be. That had taken some research to find out. So maybe I was still reaching, desperate for something convincing enough to get Conner and Shani to drop this whole idea of living here, because I said, “I mean, would I go to a serial killer’s house party?”





SIX





FIVE MINUTES LATER, all three of us were standing on Sam’s doorstep, me in front and Shani and Conner hanging behind me. We’d already rung the doorbell once, but from the faint strains of whatever luau music was playing inside, I figured Sam must not have heard the sound.

“Is this a themed party?” Conner asked from behind me. “Should we have dressed up?”

“I don’t know,” I said, shifting the bag of Kit Kats I was holding to my left hand so I could ring the bell again, really depressing the button for a few seconds before letting it go.

“Well, what did he say when he invited you?”

From inside, I could hear someone give a shout that someone was at the door. “Shhh,” I hissed to Conner.

“Oh my god, we’re party crashers,” Conner said just as the door swung open.

Sam’s eyes widened for a moment at the sight of the three of us, but I thrust the Kit Kats into his arms before he could say anything. “Hey,” I said, feeling suddenly nervous. “We heard the music from next door and . . .”

I trailed off. It was a themed party. Everyone was dressed in loud-patterned shirts and drinking out of plastic pineapples. Sam’s shirt was bright pink with white flowers on it. That coupled with the day’s growth on his jaw gave him a bit of a Miami Vice look, but I didn’t hate it.

“Did you need me to turn it down?” he asked.

“Oh,” I said, “no. It’s fine. We actually . . .”

To my surprise, Sam stepped onto the front porch, closing the door behind him. I had to back up to keep my personal space, which made me tread upon Conner’s foot, which made Conner yelp in a tableau of melodrama. Without saying another word, Sam stalked over to my driveway, where he stood for a minute, his head tilted, as if listening.

“Ow,” Conner said loudly, as if unsatisfied with my reaction to his plight.

“Oh, come on,” I hissed back, still watching Sam. “I barely got you.”

“You’re wearing combat boots.”

I glanced down at his feet. “And you’re wearing flip-flops, which should teach you to cover your toes better. Nobody needs to see that.”

“At least I’m on theme,” he grumbled. “What is he doing?”