Love in the Time of Serial Killers(66)

It was a truly impressive array when he laid it out on the table. “You cleaned them out,” I said. “If I see this on the local crime blotter later, I’m turning you in.”

“But now you’re an accessory after the fact,” Sam said, pointing to where I’d just dumped two raw sugar packets in my coffee. “I think I can count on your silence.”

Conner, I was relieved to see, had just pushed his coffee toward me so I could have two. He was a self-proclaimed “simple man,” which meant his tastes ran to Mountain Dew, Red Bull if it had been a true all-nighter. It had been thoughtful of Sam to get him some coffee, nonetheless, and I gave Sam’s arm a squeeze of thanks, trying out some casual affection of my own.

It wasn’t so bad. It was kind of nice, actually—Sam’s arm warm and hard under my hand, his immediate smile letting me know he appreciated the contact. I might’ve never let go, except Lenore chose that moment to come out of hiding and make her grand appearance for the day.

Sam crouched down to greet her, putting his hand out for her to sniff, and the little traitor actually did it. I supposed technically, she had known him longer, since they’d been neighbors longer than Sam and I had been. Still, I couldn’t help but mutter under my breath.

“What?” Sam said.

“Nothing.”

“She said Judas,” Conner said helpfully. “Not sure if she meant you or the cat.”

I glared at him. “Well, now I mean you. See if I assist with your next harebrained proposal scheme if you’re going to throw me under the bus like that.”

“That reminds me,” Sam said, now fully petting Lenore, who was, if not actively purring, at least tolerating the contact. Was it wrong that the image of him petting the cat was low-key turning me on? “Phoebe mentioned a flash mob the other night. If that was something you wanted to do, I think I might have an idea.”

“Dude, yes,” Conner said. “Hit me with it.”

Sam proceeded to explain how he’d taught his third-graders a coordinated dance last year, apparently mostly consisting of some emotes in an online game that a lot of the kids played, which made Conner’s eyes light up because he was basically a giant kid himself. They went back and forth on a few of the moves included, which sounded like pure gibberish to me but which seemed to get Conner more and more into the idea.

“I could send an email out through the PTA,” Sam said, “see if any of the parents would be down to meet up with us at a local park or something. There’s only one small issue, and I’m not sure how you’ll feel about it.”

“It all sounds great,” Conner said. “Shani will flip.”

Lenore finally slunk away without giving me so much as a backward glance, as if she was tired of this conversation. I heard her lapping up some water in the kitchen, so at least I was doing one thing right in my cat caretaking so far.

Sam stood back up, reaching for his coffee to take a sip. “Okay,” he said. “But the kids learned the dance to a specific song, and I don’t think I could teach it to them with another song in time. Especially because it’s summer, and everyone has plans—this would need to be a one-and-done deal, you know?”

“That should be fine,” Conner said. “Even if it’s a song with some you don’t know you’re beautiful messaging, I can always explain to Shani that it’s okay if she esteems herself, and it doesn’t take away her overall beauty.”

He shot me a finger-gun gesture with a little click out of the side of his mouth, and I rolled my eyes. At least he’d been listening, I guessed.

“So what’s the song?” I asked. I had no idea what you’d teach third-graders to dance to. “Let It Go (Club Remix)”? Some Kidz Bop version of a song that reframed any desire for sex as a desire to play marbles together or something?

“?‘Tubthumping,’?” Sam said. “By Chumbawamba.”

I actually choked on my coffee. And it wasn’t a cute sitcom spit take, either, but a full-out down-the-wrong-tube coughing fit. Sam rubbed my back while I got myself together enough to give them both a thumbs-up so they’d know I wasn’t dying.

“Sorry,” I said. “But what year is it?”

“That song is a classic,” Sam said. “And it teaches resilience. You get knocked down. But, you know, you get up again.”

“Maybe I could work that into my proposal somehow,” Conner said, already on his phone, probably looking up the lyrics.

“?‘Shani, with you I will drink a whiskey drink, I will drink a lager drink,’?” I suggested dryly. “Is that song even appropriate for kids?”

“The alcohol references don’t even touch some of the stuff kids sing along to without even knowing what they’re saying,” Sam said. “Or some of them do know; that’s even worse.”

“Okay, I’m in,” Conner said. “Put out your Chumbawamba call to action or whatever you need to do. Maybe for this Saturday? This is going to be sick.”

I left them to work out the details, heading back into my dad’s room to make more headway on the mess. It felt wrong, somehow, to refer to it that way, but that’s all most of it was to me. I’d love to say I found a box of handwritten letters to me he’d kept in a box, unsent but heartfelt, but this wasn’t a movie. I was separating out more clothes in donation versus trash when Sam came in to say goodbye.