Love in the Time of Serial Killers(41)

He tilted his head. “I thought it was supposed to be a cup of sugar.”

“Cats shouldn’t eat sugar,” I said, appalled. “That can’t be good for their digestive tract.”

“Wait,” Sam said. “What are we talking about?”

“Just grab the tuna and come over,” I said.

I didn’t wait for him, but left the door ajar so he’d know it was okay to come in. I was worried Lenore would’ve moved already, making it that much harder to figure out where she was now, but when I peered under the bed, there she was.

In my pocket, my phone vibrated with another message. Well??? Alison had typed. Did you get her to come out? And if so, when are you sending a pic???

I didn’t bother replying yet. Better to wait when I actually had an update to share.

Sam appeared in the doorway of my room, hesitating at the threshold like he was a vampire who needed to be invited in. “I brought the tuna,” he said, holding up a can, and then another implement in his other hand. “And a can opener. Just in case.”

I gestured him in, and he joined me down on the floor. I’d already brought a fork and plate from the kitchen, and I opened the can of tuna and scooped a little bit out onto the plate, hoping it looked appetizing enough for Lenore to venture out. It certainly smelled strong enough.

“Is this a satanic ritual?” Sam asked. “Because I like to be asked for affirmative consent before I participate in one of those.”

“Shh,” I said. “Maybe we should back up, give her some space.”

I withdrew, sliding back on the carpet until my back was against the closet. Sam joined me, angling his head to try to see under the bed. I could’ve reached out and tousled his hair—he was so close. It took massive self-control—and me sitting on my hands—but I managed to resist the temptation.

“How’d she get under there?” Sam asked.

“She’s been trying to come in the house lately,” I said. “Today I left the door open and she just darted in. Now she won’t come out from under the bed, and I don’t want to hurt her, but you know . . . what if she takes a dump under there or something? I don’t want to have to deal with that.”

“You should hope for poop,” Sam said. “The alternative might be harder to get the smell out.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said. “Real helpful.”

He glanced around, as if taking in the surroundings for the first time. “Is this your childhood room?” he asked. “There’s a lot of black.”

“Well, I didn’t paint it that way until I was fourteen and capable of making cryptic comments about how I wanted my room to match my soul. When this was truly my childhood bedroom, it was perfectly normal, thank you very much. I had a wallpaper border with roses on it and an American Girl doll on the dresser and everything.”

“Let me guess.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Samantha.”

“Not all brunette girls needed to own a Samantha doll,” I said, affronted. “But yes, it was Samantha. She had a really cool tartan cape and a valise and she stood up against child labor, so don’t think she was just some prissy rich girl.”

Sam held his hands up in surrender. “I would never.”

“How do you have a handle on the Pleasant Company catalog, anyway? Not that dudes can’t play with dolls, et cetera, but you said Samantha with the air of a man who knew about Molly and Felicity and Addy and Kirsten and Josefina and Kit . . .”

“You lost me at Kit,” he said. “But I have sisters. I know stuff.”

I remembered the pictures hanging in his house, the masses of people, all smiling as though they were actually happy to spend time together. “How many siblings do you have?”

“Five,” he said, and that number shocked me even though I’d been preparing myself for it to be high.

“You come from a family of six kids?” I asked.

He started counting off on his fingers. “Tara is the oldest, then Jack, Megan, me, Erin, and Dylan.”

“Are you all close?”

He shrugged. “Pretty close, I think,” he said. “Obviously we’re kind of spread out now. We grew up in Chicago, and Tara and Megan stayed near there, and Dylan still lives at home. Jack is stationed overseas, and Erin is in grad school in Seattle. We have a group chat, though.”

I knew it.

“You and Conner must be close,” Sam said. “What did he end up needing the other night?”

I waved my hand. “It’s a long story,” I said, not wanting to get into the proposal scheme and the broken wrist and all that. “Conner and I actually don’t know each other that well. There’s a seven-year age gap, and since I moved out with our mom when he was only six and he stayed here with our dad, we didn’t grow up in the same house for most of our childhood.”

“Oh.” Sam had brought his knees up, linking his arms loosely around them, and he seemed to be thinking about what I’d said. We were the living embodiment of a Tolstoy quote—him with his happy family and me with my unhappy one. Or maybe that wasn’t fair.

“I know that sounds like some awful Parent Trap shit,” I said. “Like they separated us or something. But we each chose the parent we wanted to go with. My dad always let Conner get away with anything—I think it was because he was a boy and the baby—whereas with me . . . well, I never felt like my dad got me, I guess, or cared to try. It was an easy choice for both of us.”