Love in the Time of Serial Killers(48)

“I actually bought these for myself,” he said. “For when I . . .”

He trailed off, frowning down at the corner he’d been wedging the paintbrush into. From my angle, the paint looked fine, so I couldn’t figure out why he’d stopped.

Or maybe he was waiting for me to actually do some work on my own house. I grabbed a roller and loaded it up with paint, starting to press streaks of Linen White onto the wall.

“If you don’t finish that sentence,” I said, “you know I’ll do it in my head with something like for when I’m dropping a human body into the acid bath.”

He gave a soft laugh. “I don’t think this fabric is manufactured to withstand acid baths,” he said. “No, I had this idea a year or so ago that I’d start making my own guitars. So I bought these for that project, because I thought it’d be cool, having this dedicated uniform I could work in, and that I wouldn’t worry about getting paint or varnish or glue on.”

“You make your own guitars?”

“Not really,” he said. “It didn’t work out.”

I thought back to his garage, those parts that had been left, as if in the middle of being put back together.

“You’re a giant nerd,” I said, like it was a revelation. It kind of was. Anyone who’d even attempted to make his own instrument, even going so far as to buy his own work uniform to do so, definitely qualified as a nerd in my book.

“Yeah,” he said, “I’ve been told that.”

Something about the way he said it, something about the resigned set of his shoulders, told me maybe he hadn’t taken that comment as the joke I’d meant it. “That’s not a bad thing,” I clarified. “I have a whole spreadsheet dedicated to episodes of Disappeared, where I Google the cases every few months to see if they solved what happened to the people yet. Music sounds like a much healthier obsession.”

“Speaking of,” he said, “we could put on some music while we worked. If you wanted.”

Never let it be said I couldn’t take a hint to shut up. I only had my phone, and I tried to put that in an empty Solo cup to amplify the sound, but only two songs into my playlist he said he couldn’t take it and ran to his house to get a Bluetooth speaker. While he was gone, I checked my phone, and saw that Conner had texted a few times.

I can head over to help if you need me, the first one read, and then, Happy to hold a ladder for moral support.

Then, several minutes later, That probably doesn’t sound very secure, huh?

Half an hour ago, I totally would’ve taken Conner up on his offer. If for no other reason than I had an older sister’s distaste for seeing him get out of doing something that I still had to do. But then Sam was back, his hair already sticking to his forehead slightly with sweat, his smile genuine as he set the speaker up on my desk. And so I texted, Nah it’s fine. I’ve got this. You can bring me lunch tomorrow if you’re feeling really guilty. And best believe I’ll expect you to help repaint my room. Then I added a line of skull emojis. That black was going to take a lot to cover.

Sam and I got into a rhythm with our painting, working on opposite walls so we wouldn’t run into each other. I felt bad for him—while I was rolling on the paint willy-nilly, overlapping lines and hoping it would all dry as one cohesive color, he had to be down on the ground hunched over the trim, keeping his hand steady and neat.

He must’ve felt the opposite, though, because he looked up, giving me a sympathetic grimace. “Want me to roll some on for a bit? You’re doing all the muscle.”

Which made my gaze go to his arms, naturally. Even with the occasional smear of Linen White, they still looked delicious. I could sink my teeth into the wiry tendon above his wrist, not to draw blood but just to exert a soft pressure . . .

Jesus. I was scaring even myself. My own self-judgment made my voice sharper than intended when I said, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Sam stopped painting, his brush suspended in midair. “What?”

“You don’t have to be here,” I said. “Painting sucks. If I could get out of doing this, believe me, I would.”

“I actually like painting.”

“I know, you’re reliving your A-Plus glory days,” I said. “But seriously, I’m not that nice to you. I don’t understand why you would be nice to me.”

Sam stared up at me, his brush still in his hand, as though forgotten.

“Drip!” I said, just in time for him to stick the brush back in his cup of paint. His gaze didn’t move from the cup for a moment, as though he’d just had a near miss with death and was contemplating the meaning of his life so far.

“I think I need a break,” he said. “Any chance you have more of that pie?”

I didn’t, but we shared the last packet of cinnamon brown sugar Pop-Tarts, eating them untoasted directly from the foil. Thanks to the lack of furniture in the common areas aside from my writing desk, there weren’t many seating options, but Sam said he wanted to stretch his legs anyway. Meanwhile, I’d take any excuse to get off my feet, so I settled into my desk chair and hoped I could find the energy to get back out in a few minutes.

“What makes you think you’re not nice to me?” he asked finally, his voice so casual that I almost didn’t connect his words back to our previous conversation.