Love in the Time of Serial Killers(58)

I knew that what Alison was saying made logical sense. I also knew that she, of all people, should know just how fucked up I was. After all, she’d been the one who was there when I was fifteen and threatening to kill myself in internet messages. I’d always said it was just a joke, and it had been, in a way. But jokes had also always been one of my safest ways of expressing myself—sometimes allowing me to skate around what I wanted to say, other times allowing me to crash right into it and then later deny I’d meant to.

“If I can make one more observation?” Alison said. She’d already said a lot, so I waved her on. No reason to hold back now.

“You’ve always been kind of . . .” She turned her to-go cup of coffee around in her hands, as though she were trying to figure out the exact order to put her words in. “All or nothing.”

She gave me a look through those wire glasses, and her meaning was so clear that I had to glance away. Because wasn’t that essentially what had ended our friendship? I’d taken her intervention phone call to my mother as the ultimate betrayal, and had allowed that one incident to poison all the years we’d had together. I knew she was right. It didn’t mean it was easy to hear.

“So this thing with Sam,” she said. “Maybe just keep an open mind. You don’t have to be in a relationship, if you’re not ready for it. But don’t be aggressively not in a relationship, either. You know?”

I wished I could say I didn’t. There were a lot of double negatives in that sentence. But I knew exactly what Alison was saying, because it was true—the minute I’d woken up next to Sam, I’d immediately started thinking about ways to make it clear that this was just sex, I was not emotionally involved. It was a defense that put me on the offense, and I’d done it before.

“Okay,” I said. “Now that you’ve solved that issue, tell me. Where am I supposed to put Lenore’s litter box?”

Alison gave me a grin that I did not like the look of at all. “By now, she’s probably pooped in some corner of the house,” she said. “I would suggest you put it right there.”



* * *





?IT TURNED OUT that was exactly what Lenore had done. After I cleaned it up and muttered a few more choice words to her, I set up the litter box in the spot where she apparently liked to do her business.

“This is now your designated area,” I said. “When we get to know each other better I’ll show you the Dateline where the girl slips and says designated area, after she’s been saying the whole time that they never planned to kill her boyfriend’s ex when they all went out to the salt flats together. Keith Morrison jumped right on it. He should’ve won an Emmy for that episode alone.”

The book had recommended I mostly ignore Lenore, to give her space as she figured out her new surroundings. That part was easy enough. To encourage your cat to play, it said to stay on the floor, idly flicking a string or other toy while talking in a friendly manner. It didn’t specifically say to talk about your favorite true crime programming, but it didn’t say not to, either.

The whole time, I was listening for the sound of Sam’s truck. It had been gone from his driveway when I got back from coffee with Alison, and I was anxious for him to come home so I could talk to him.

I hadn’t even yet fully planned out what I would say. An apology was as good a way to start as anything. He’d told me I was beautiful, called the sex amazing—which it had been—and asked me to stay the night. While I’d told him I was exhausted, taken some of his clothes, and hightailed it out of there as soon as I could.

I didn’t need the internet to weigh in on this one. I was the asshole.

Eventually, Lenore did venture out to where I was waving a toy back and forth on the floor, some stick with feathers at the end that Alison assured me she’d go nuts for. The cat gave me a slit-eyed look, like You thought I’d fall for this shit?, and refused to pounce, but she was watching, so I kept up the steady movement of the toy.

“I get it,” I said. “You have too much dignity. This is beneath you. You probably want the New York Times Style section.”

A flick of the tail. Maybe she was more of a current-events kind of cat.

“That’s us, alone in our dignity.” A rumble came from outside, and I sat up straighter, my ears perked up like I was the cat. But then the sound got louder, before quiet again, like a car had driven by the house but kept going. I slumped back, the toy forgotten in my hand.

Lenore slunk away to the kitchen, where I could hear her rustling at the bowl of food I’d set out for her.

“Okay, just you,” I said. “I have no dignity left anymore.”



* * *





?I DIDN’T SEE Sam the next day, either. Clearly he’d come home at some point, because he’d put his trash and recycling out, which was a good reminder that I needed to do the same.

My neighbor on the other side, Pat, poked her head around her open garage to watch me as I walked up the side of the house for the cans. She always had her garage open and nine times out of ten would be in there sitting on a foldable lawn chair, chain-smoking. If I had really thought about it, she would’ve been the one to bust Sam for any serial killer activity long before I arrived on the case. There wasn’t much she seemed to miss from her nosy position under the shadowed eave of her garage.