Love in the Time of Serial Killers(44)

“Whoa. That sounds intense.”

“A couple years ago, a guy started crying because they asked him all this stuff about the French Revolution and he’d taken one class on French literature his second year. I think that professor was being a dick, though—usually they’re not trying to trick you. At least, I hope not.”

Sam was running one finger along the pages of the book, the soft rustling sound oddly soothing. “So then after that you’re a doctor?”

“Technically, not until after graduation,” I said. “But the defense is a bigger milestone for sure. Once you pass it, you mostly only have logistical stuff to worry about like the final formatting and making sure you’re all paid up on any parking fines.”

Last year, I’d attended as many defenses as I could, trying to get an idea of what mine might look like. I’d been intimidated by the comprehensive exams I had to take a couple years ago, but I was actually looking forward to my defense. It was nerve-wracking, the idea of all this time and effort and work culminating in two hours of sink or swim, but I loved talking about true crime and how its genre conventions had shifted over the last century. I felt ready.

In fact, if I could skip to that part without having to actually finish the dissertation itself . . .

I realized I’d never answered Sam’s original question about why I was drawn to the subject, but I also didn’t have a satisfying hard-boiled answer. I switched on the radio to the local alternative station, turning the volume down so we could still easily talk. “What made you become a music teacher?”

“My grandmother taught piano,” Sam said. “She gave all us kids lessons, but I was the only one who stuck with it. And then I did orchestra in middle school, playing the violin, before switching to band in high school as a drummer. Music was the most constant thing in my life, you know? Grades were good, grades were bad, I had friends, I didn’t have friends, it didn’t matter. I always had music.”

I snuck a glance at him. He’d stopped ruffling the book’s pages but was gripping it so tight his knuckles were white. I liked the way he got when he talked about music, how much he obviously cared.

“Hard to believe you ever lacked for friends,” I said. If Sam the kid was anything like Sam the adult, it was difficult to imagine anyone not getting along with him.

“In sixth grade, I still wore very short shorts,” he said. “My mom set out all my outfits for me on my bed every morning. I was oblivious. My favorite T-shirt was from the Titanic museum.”

I bit back a smile. “In third grade, I told the whole class I was dead.”

“So you were a ghost? Or was it more a Weekend at Bernie’s situation?”

“I don’t even remember. I just wanted kids to leave me alone.”

The spot I’d parked in last time I came to the library was open, but I parked a few spaces down, because I had random bursts of superstition that made me believe in bad luck. Once I’d been wearing a new skirt on the day I got into a minor fender bender, and I’d never worn the skirt again.

“Your lights are off?” Sam said, apparently thinking about the last time we’d been here, too.

“Ha ha,” I said, but I checked, just to make sure.

This time, when I walked in and saw Alison shelving DVDs in the media section, I immediately went over to say hi.

“I knew it,” she said as soon as she saw me. “Section six hundred thirty-six upstairs, animal husbandry. We definitely have books on cats. Unless you want one from the juvenile section? I’m not making fun—some of them are better because they boil it down to just the basics. And they have lots of pictures.”

“I think I can handle a grown-up book,” I said dryly. I could see Alison peering curiously behind me, so I gestured to Sam. “This is my neighbor, Sam. Sam, this is my friend, Alison.”

If I hesitated slightly over the word friend, I hoped neither noticed.

Sam lifted his hand in a wave, but Alison was already holding hers out to shake. “Hi, Sam,” she said. “I’ve seen you around. How’s the—” She stopped herself, making a gesture like she was zipping her lips. “Sorry. Don’t talk about patrons’ checkout history in front of other patrons! I swear, it’s like Library Science 101.”

“It’s okay,” he said, then turned to me. “Your friend helped me find that soldering book from before.”

“Wow,” I said. “I’ve been mispronouncing that word in my head this whole time. It really doesn’t rhyme with smoldering, are you sure?”

The corner of his mouth twitched in a smile. “Pretty sure.”

“I was writing you a sonnet, but that’s really going to throw the whole rhyme scheme off.”

It was just a joke—obviously, I wasn’t writing anyone a sonnet, I hadn’t written a poem since my sophomore year of high school, when my poem “Indiffernce,” typo and all, had been selected to be published in a Poetry.com anthology available to me and my loved ones for the low, low price of sixty bucks. I almost wished I had ordered a copy after all. The poem had featured a lot of winter imagery and had included the last lines: And as I sink down to my knees / I feel only indifference. I’d been very proud of them at the time.

But I realized after I said it what the whole joke had implied—that I was writing a poem for Sam, that I’d intended to use the word smoldering, presumably to describe him . . .