Love in the Time of Serial Killers(70)

Alison had been rifling through some multicolored cardigans, careful to only lift enough to see the size sticker on each one so as not to disturb the neatness of the stacks. She definitely had a librarian’s desire to leave everything exactly as she’d found it, and a librarian’s need for more and more cardigans. Now she paused.

“You were so angry after your parents split up,” she said. “And since you’d moved away and neither one of us could drive yet, I felt like I was losing you. To the distance, but also just to . . .” She gestured vaguely out to the ether.

“Depression?” I supplied. “I know. I was in a black cloud around that time. Sometimes I think I have a bit of a gray cloud, at least, that still follows me around. I know people’s parents get divorced, and every teenager is practically required to go through a stage where they shop at Hot Topic and say things like You laugh because I’m different, but I laugh because you’re all the same. But it felt like too much to deal with, and I shut out a lot of people, including you.”

“I could tell you were going through a lot,” Alison said. “When you said that thing, about swallowing a bottle of pills . . . well, it sounded like you could be serious. I didn’t want you to get in trouble, but I also knew I’d never forgive myself if you ended up doing something and I hadn’t acted on it. I knew you were at your dad’s that weekend, but also knew that you weren’t that close with him, so I thought it was better to call your mom’s apartment. I’m really sorry if that ended up being the wrong thing to do.”

It had ended up becoming another fight between my parents, a piece of evidence as to why she wasn’t doing a good job raising me and why he wasn’t doing a good job of supervising me when I was back in his care. It meant my mom spent the next year randomly asking to read my chat threads or watching me especially close on major holidays—she seemed to think that New Year’s in particular would send me over the edge, which was actually pretty astute. It meant my dad had burst into my room while I was chatting with Alison and yelled, Not in my house!, the only thing he’d ever directly said to me about the entire incident, which left me with the distinct impression, however false and overdramatic, that he cared less if I killed myself and more that I didn’t do it during the forty-eight hours when I was his responsibility. It meant that I’d decided, fine, not in your house, and arranged it so I never spent another custodial weekend in that house again.

But none of that was Alison’s fault.

“I was mad at you at the time,” I said. “But deep down, I think I was mad at myself. I knew I wasn’t actually planning to do anything, that it was just a cry for attention. And I hated myself for it.”

Alison’s brows drew together. “But what’s so bad about needing attention? Especially if you’re in pain, or struggling.”

I shrugged. “Call it being a Capricorn,” I said. It was a deliberately simplistic response, because how else could I express it, the way my skin crawled at the idea of saying baldly to someone, I’m in pain, I’m struggling, I need you. It always blew my mind, when people on social media posted things like “I’m having a bad day, please send compliments!” I loved that for them, being so open, but I’d rather saw off my own foot.

“Either way,” Alison said. “I’m glad you came back and we were able to reconnect. I missed you.”

“Same.” Then, before it could get any mushier than it already had, I held a charcoal blazer I’d found up to my body. “What do you think?”

“That could be a good color,” Alison said. “It lets you wear it with black without worrying about matching exact shades.”

“Truly the bane of my existence,” I said, adding it to the growing pile over my arm. “Speaking of, time to hit the dressing room.”





TWENTY-ONE





I ENDED UP WITH two different blazer options—the charcoal and a black one—and a new pair of shoes. Considering that I’d effectively found almost half my outfit for the interview and hadn’t broken out into frustrated sobs once, it was a successful trip.

I let myself into the house and hung the clothes up in my closet, automatically clicking my tongue against my teeth the way I did when I was trying to see if Lenore would come out. She rarely responded, but it felt like something I had to do, regardless, a Hey, honey, I’m home.

The house did seem extra quiet. It shouldn’t—even if Lenore was there, she’d be under the bed or on the windowsill behind some blinds in my dad’s room, watching the birds through the window. It was her favorite place to be lately, although she’d jump down and scurry into the closet if you came into the room.

I got down on the floor to peer under the bed. No Lenore.

Still making the clicking sound, I walked slowly through the rest of the house, my gaze sweeping every corner. Since we’d moved so much stuff out, there really weren’t that many places for her to go in the common areas. It must be an incredibly boring place for her to hang out, compared to the variety and stimulation of outside. Why hadn’t I thought about that before? Gotten a fucking cat climbing tree covered in carpet or whatever that book had recommended?

She wasn’t on the windowsill. She wasn’t in the closet. Her food bowl was still mostly full. And the more I thought back to that morning, the more I thought about how I’d gone to my car only to realize that I’d forgotten to bring the shirt I planned to wear for the interview, like Alison had told me to. I’d run back in to grab it, and I may have left the door ajar. That didn’t sound like me, especially after I’d read about the Vampire of Sacramento and how he’d never hit up a house with a locked door, feeling it was a sign he was unwelcome. But it had been for only a few seconds, and I was pretty sure I’d left the door open.