Love in the Time of Serial Killers(82)

I had never articulated all of that before. It was shameful to admit, even to myself, but I hadn’t given my service much thought. I enjoyed teaching, the energy of being in front of a classroom, the chemistry that could happen when you were firing on all cylinders and your jokes were landing and the students’ faces were lighting up with recognition. But it could also be stressful and exhausting, and had to take a back seat to my own studies and research while I focused on getting my degree.

It had been seeing Sam, and the way he was about his own students, that had really made me consider my own teaching more. He exemplified more of what Dr. Blake was talking about—the idea that everything he experienced or learned could be funneled down to spark excitement for music in a kid, or teach them a concept about tempo or pitch.

He’d asked me, all those weeks ago, about why I was drawn to true crime. I had no idea what answer I would’ve given then, but I had more clarity now.

“I feel like I grew up afraid of so many things,” I said. “There’s just so much uncertainty in life, especially when you’re a kid . . . you don’t know why your dad is upset, or why your mom puts up with it, or whether you’ll ever have a true friend you could talk to. It sounds twisted, but by the time I was a teenager, there was something almost comforting about reading about serial killers. It was like, here, be afraid of this. Focus on this. There’s uncertainty, and open questions, but it’ll all get wrapped up at the end. Justice will be served, the victims will be remembered, whatever. It was only when I started reading and rereading some of those books more closely that I started questioning what justice meant, or truth, or even fear.”

“It’s an interesting focus,” Dr. Blake said, and it didn’t sound patronizing at all, the way it sometimes did when people used the word interesting to describe my work. “Do you think you’d want to teach the rhetoric of true crime specifically, if you had the opportunity?”

“I’d love to,” I said. “But I know it’s kind of a reach. I’m definitely ready to do my time teaching composition, professional writing, whatever pays the bills. And then maybe someday I’ll find somewhere that would let me propose my own class, where I could focus more on American true crime from the 1960s to present.”

“In Cold Blood,” Dr. Blake said.

“Of course. But there’s so much more diversity and nuance to the genre now, too. The Third Rainbow Girl. No Place Safe. The Fact of the Body is one of my favorites. And it’s not just murder, either. The narratives about white-collar crime can be really fascinating, like Bad Blood or The Wizard of Lies or The Big Short.”

We’d been walking for so long down the central bricked pathway through the campus that I’d barely noticed we’d reached a small white house with green shutters.

“Well,” they said, “as Dr. Nilsson probably told you, we do not have any job openings at this time. But I believe we will be opening up a visiting instructorship before next year, for a three-year contract in the English Department. As you said, it would be a lot of composition and other service courses, but there would be room for a class or two in the candidate’s specialty. I think a class in true crime would be quite popular. We would be doing a standard search once the job opens up, so this is by no means a guaranteed offer, but I hope to see your application materials in the pool. When the contract ended, there would be a possibility for the position to become more permanent, but that wouldn’t be guaranteed, either. What do you think?”

What did I think? “It sounds amazing,” I said, trying to play it cool but failing miserably.

They smiled at me, as if they sensed my enthusiasm but hopefully found it endearing instead of immature. “The English Department is in here,” they said, gesturing toward the converted house. “Come in, I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

By the time I drove home, I was feeling pretty good about how the interview had gone, and almost hopeful about my future post–graduate school. I still had to finish the damn dissertation, which I preferred not to think about, and even letting my mind wander around the implications of a possible job within a reasonable commuting distance, what it could mean . . .

Well, that made me feel more melancholy than hopeful. It wouldn’t change anything significant, just because there was a slim chance that one logistical barrier would be removed in any relationship between me and Sam. That was all done now. I’d torched the bridge and I couldn’t torture myself wondering if there was any way back to the other side.



* * *





?THE NIGHT BEFORE I was about to leave to return to North Carolina, Conner came over. I’d invited both him and Shani out for one last dinner together, because there wasn’t much left in the house, and nowhere to sit except the desk, which Conner was supposed to help me strap back to the roof of my car. But Conner had said maybe it should just be the two of us for dinner. “We haven’t gotten to hang out as much as I wanted,” he said. “Which, I get. You were busy with school stuff, and I had work. My calls are under seven minutes, by the way. But this job sucks. I think I’m going to wait until after the wedding and then try to find something where they don’t make you lock your phone in a locker at the start of every shift.”

Conner and Shani were planning a spring wedding, and it was already shaping up to be a much more involved affair than either of them had thought, once some of Shani’s Indian relatives weighed in on the details of the ceremony and reception. Words were thrown around like itinerary and second outfit change. Conner was psyched about the clothes he’d get to wear, though.