Love in the Time of Serial Killers(43)

Hmm, if only there were a place where one could go for information . . . a place that had free books on every topic you could think of . . . [book stack emoji]



Smiling, I typed back the interwebs? just to be a shit.

I slid my phone into my back pocket, taking a deep breath as I considered the absolute folly of every single part of what I was about to do. “Any chance you’re up for a library visit?”





THIRTEEN





SAM AND I agreed to meet back up in front of my house in half an hour to head out together. He said he needed to gather his books and finish a few things, and I desperately needed a shower and a change of clothes if I was going to reenter the world of other people.

I told myself that getting a book or two on how to care for a cat wouldn’t be out of the question. It wasn’t like I was knitting Lenore a sweater. Reading up on cat ownership would just give me an idea of what to expect, if I ever did decide to get a pet down the road.

Plus, I really needed to get out of the house.

There was also no particular reason for me to dress a little nicer than I normally would, in a black V-neck shirt, with nothing screen-printed on it, that hinted at my cleavage. I applied some winged eyeliner and red lipstick before I decided that both together were too much and wiped the lipstick off.

I was tired of my own usual updo but also self-conscious about the idea of wearing my hair down in front of Sam, lest it feel like I was trying too hard or purposely referencing back to our conversation in his garage. So instead I braided it in a loose, over-the-shoulder style.

Sam was already waiting for me by the time I headed outside. If I wasn’t mistaken, it looked like he’d put in a little effort, too. He’d done something with his hair, at least, so that it was still shaggy but not as disorderly as it usually was. I’d never tell him this, but I kinda liked the disorder.

“Ready?” I asked brusquely.

He held up his books, the same ones I’d seen him with that day my battery had died. “As I’ll ever be.”

I unlocked the Camry and pulled open the driver’s-side door, waiting until he’d settled into the passenger seat before saying, “What does that mean? If you need more time before we head out, just say so. Or I can make the trip myself—it’s not like I need you to come.”

He laughed a little. “It’s something my dad says. If you ask if he’s ready, no matter what, he’ll answer, As I’ll ever be. I didn’t even realize it came out of my mouth.”

“Oh.”

My dad had had those, too. Little sayings or punch lines he used in certain situations—I guessed there was a reason dad jokes were a thing. Like if you said you were hungry, he’d say, “Hi, Hungry, I’m John,” or if you said you were going to jump on the computer he’d say, “Please, don’t jump.” When I thought of my dad, it was as a quiet, serious man, prone to bouts of rage, but he’d actually had a pretty dry sense of humor. He could be silly, too. If he found a frog in the house—and it was Florida, frogs were always getting into the house somehow—he’d capture it in a glass and release it outside. “If you love something, let it go,” he’d say with exaggerated somberness. “Only I hope you don’t come back to us, my frog friend, because all that’s here for you is toilet water.”

“I’m glad you asked me to come with you to the library,” Sam said now. “I’ll return these early for once.”

“Yeah, I need to renew mine.” Which I could’ve easily done online, but I hoped he wouldn’t point that out.

“Do you mind?” Sam asked instead, his hand hovering over my tote bag, and I shook my head. He pulled out the Sunrise Slayer’s daughter’s book, flipping it over to read the back.

I braced myself for the inevitable comment on how dark the subject matter was, how fucked up it would be to find out your dad was a serial killer. But Sam just made an ambiguous sound in the back of his throat, leaving the book on his lap as he looked out the window.

“Your dissertation is about the relationship between author and subject in true crime,” Sam said finally. “Is that right?”

“In a nutshell.”

“So why this subject for you? What’s your relationship to it?” His voice was curious, not accusatory, but I still felt an immediate resistance to the questions. It was a knee-jerk reaction after a lifetime of being an incredibly private person. Sam must’ve seen some of that cross my face, because he hastened to add, “Sorry. If that’s something you don’t want to talk about, you don’t have to.”

“No,” I said, the word coming out slow, like I was still considering it. “It’s okay. It’s a fair question. They’ll probably ask it at my defense.”

“That’s where you present your work in front of your professors?”

“My committee, yeah,” I said. This had been my entire world for so long, sometimes it was hard to remember what parts of it would be known by people outside of academia, and which esoteric details would be lost without explanation. “Basically, that’s my main advisor and three other professors. I present all my research in front of them and anyone else who wants to attend, and anyone in the audience can ask me questions. Then the audience leaves and it’s just me and the committee, and they can ask me anything they want—not just about my dissertation, but about anything I’ve studied the last five and a half years.”