Love in the Time of Serial Killers(6)

“Aren’t we”—Conner huffed as he struggled to get the desk through the door—“supposed to be taking things out?”

“This hunk of wood is the only thing I love in the entire world,” I said, before pinching my finger between the desk and the wall and letting out a violent curse. I examined my reddened joint and started thinking about how hard it would be to type with a fractured finger before the pain dulled and went away. “Besides, I need it to work.”

I went to close the front door, but then I caught sight of a guy coming down the sidewalk. Not a guy. The guy. The Midnight Mover.

Just as I was standing in the doorway, my heart beating out of my chest, he glanced up. He looked a bit more presentable in the daylight—khaki pants, white button-up shirt, brown hair brushed maybe, definitely wearing shoes at least. As I continued to stare, he lifted his hand in a wave.

I shut the door so fast it made my old guitar vibrate with a low, toneless buzz.

“What’s wrong?” Conner asked.

“It’s him,” I said, crossing over to the window to tweak the blinds and look out. “The guy who moved my desk for me last night.”

“Uh,” Conner said, “isn’t that what we just did? Or do you have two of these things?”

“No,” I said impatiently, not really wanting to get into the whole encounter. “It was strapped to the top of my car. He must’ve taken it down and brought it to the house.”

“That was nice,” Conner said. “Very neighborly.”

“He’s not a—” I started to say, then paused when I saw him getting into a truck in the driveway next door and backing out onto the street. Huh. He was a neighbor.

Well, I knew one thing. If the local news ever came to interview me after he’d been caught for some massive spree, I wasn’t about to be one of those shocked innocents who was all, Who, that guy? He was so nice and neighborly! He moved a piece of heavy furniture for me once. Kept to himself. Polite as could be. Would wave when he saw me outside.

Was he nice, or performing niceness? Had moving the desk been a way to make me feel subtly indebted to him? Secrecy was a practical necessity if you had something to hide; politeness was social chloroform.

They say all serial killers on some level want to be caught, and that was the only way to explain the wave.

“?‘. . . Old neighbors viewed each other strangely, and as strangers,’?” I said softly to myself.

From behind me, Conner laughed. “If anyone is acting strangely here, it’s you. This is a real ‘?“?’Tis,” replied Aunt Helga’ moment you’re in.”

I’d been quoting Truman Capote’s classic In Cold Blood; trust my brother to answer with a reference to one of our favorite Simpsons episodes when we were kids.

“We may as well start with this room,” I said, letting the blinds drop again. “I’ll grab the garbage bags.”





THREE





BY THE TIME Conner left, we’d made pretty good progress in the living room. It was still filled with junk, but at least the stuff was stacked somewhat neatly and organized by what could be donated and what probably just needed to be thrown away.

After that, it was off to the grocery store to stock up on some food. I drove a few miles away to a store where my father hadn’t collapsed, and then took longer to unload everything into the house than I’d thought, so I was wiped when I finished. My best-laid plans to start working on my dissertation flew out the window, when all I wanted to do was nap.

Except that just as I was drifting off into sleep, a sharp rap came at the door, jerking me back awake. It couldn’t be Conner this time—no way would he come back to do more work today, and he’d ended up taking the case of Mountain Dew with him, so even the promise of that neon green liquid wasn’t a lure.

I opened the door just in time to see a delivery truck pull away, and glanced down to see a package at my feet. My dad had ordered a lot of shit—was it possible he had some kind of automatic subscription that needed to be canceled now that he was gone?

But no. The label on the box clearly read Samuel Dennings, with an address two digits off mine.

The Midnight Mover.

The navy blue truck was back in his driveway, so before I could think twice, I marched over there and knocked on his door. I could’ve just left the box, but that wouldn’t be quite as satisfying. Now that I had a name for this dude, I wanted to get a better look close-up.

I was about to knock again when he finally opened the door. I wasn’t prepared for how small the distance between us would be, and I took an automatic step back, holding the box between us like a barrier.

He was still wearing the khaki pants, his more formal shirt now unbuttoned and a little askew, the sleeves rolled up just past his elbows. His dark hair hung over one eye, but I could see his gaze sweeping over me, taking me in. At least this time I wasn’t wearing coffee-stained pajama pants. I’d put on what was essentially my uniform that morning—black leggings, black T-shirt, my long hair in a messy bun, and winged eyeliner because fuck it why not. Still, I resisted the urge to tug my shirt down, make sure it wasn’t showing a flash of belly.

Not that I cared what he thought.

“I believe this is yours, Samuel,” I said, holding out the box.

He paused for a moment before taking it. I couldn’t help notice that behind him, his house was the same layout as my dad’s but flipped, and a hell of a lot cleaner. There didn’t seem to be any need to say anything else, so I turned to go. Then, from behind me, I heard a clearing of his throat, and a single word.