Love in the Time of Serial Killers(89)

Dr. Nilsson smiled at me. “You’re well prepared, Phoebe,” she said. “Get some rest, and I’ll see you Thursday.”



* * *





?UNFORTUNATELY, get some rest was advice I rarely followed. Instead, I paced around my apartment while Lenore watched me from her usual spot on the back of the couch. I scrolled through my streaming options, trying to find something to watch that would let me zone out a little, and instead landed on an episode of Disappeared that I’d somehow never seen.

“I know, I know,” I said to Lenore, giving her a few scratches under her chin as it started up. “This is not me making healthy choices.”

The setup was classic—a young husband and wife, both working two jobs in their quest for the American Dream. I almost wished Conner was there, just so he could see how right I was about the narrative choices these shows always made. Because the couple were always working, there was plausible deniability as to why it took the husband three days to even realize his wife was missing, but still. Clearly this was going to end up another one of those the husband did it ones.

I leaned my head back against the couch, which caused Lenore to look at me slit-eyed before going back to her breadloaf nap. I felt such a sudden strong desire to have Sam there with me it was almost painful. He’d probably have convinced Lenore to curl right up in his lap by now, would find ways to give this Disappeared jabroni the benefit of the doubt as he described his frantic search for his missing wife. Hell, Sam wasn’t even here and I was already breaking character to root for love in this episode. No way could the husband be involved. Why weren’t the police taking him seriously, filing a missing persons report?

When the wife was found alive, the victim of a horrible car accident that might not have been discovered in time were it not for the husband’s persistence, I was shocked to find myself actually tearing up. It was cathartic, the relief that she was okay after all—something true crime programming rarely gave you. But there was more to it than that.

Somehow, Sam had sanded down my cynical edges. I’d built up this armor for so long, and I’d always worried I wouldn’t recognize myself without it. But it turned out that I liked who I was with Sam. Dr. Nilsson had talked about what a hard road academia could be, and I knew it was true even as I’d discounted her words. I wasn’t afraid of traveling hard roads alone. I’d done it before.

But I didn’t want to do it anymore. And with this dissertation defense, I’d practiced and practiced my presentation, tried to predict questions I might get and prepare brief, articulate answers to them. But I’d never really thought about how it would feel to actually be up there, staring out at a crowd of people there to listen to my research. Hadn’t considered that there might be people I would want there, not because they were colleagues or future graduates, but because they cared about me, and I cared about them, and I wanted to share this part of my life.

I wanted Conner and Shani there, if it was at all possible this late in the game. I wanted Conner to give me a high five afterward and say something ridiculous about the one twisted detail he’d gleaned from my entire presentation. I wanted Shani to be there, radiating positivity and encouragement. I knew it was very unlikely that Alison would be able to come, but I would love for her to.

Most of all, I wanted Sam.



* * *





?THE ARRANGEMENTS WERE easier to make than I’d thought. After I’d sent out a few texts, a poet from my teaching practicum last year said she’d be happy to come by and feed Lenore and clean out the litter box. It almost made me feel bad, how quickly she responded, because I’d considered her an acquaintance but had never thought we had much in common. It just highlighted the ways I’d kept myself in my own little bubble, thinking that there was no point in trying, when there were people out there ready to be friendly at the first opportunity.

If I drove straight through, I could be at Sam’s house by midnight. That would leave me the next day to drive back to North Carolina, and then turn around and have my defense the morning after I got back. The first thing I did once I’d gotten on the highway was call Conner, and ask him if he’d want to come.

“Dude,” he said. “Of course. I have sixteen hours of PTO saved up at this point, and Shani’s next shift isn’t until Saturday.”

“You don’t have to,” I said. “I mean, I know it’s late notice—”

“I want to,” Conner said. “I would’ve asked to before, except you said it wasn’t the kind of thing where people came to it. So I thought it would be like asking to sit in on a literature class or something.”

“I can’t promise you that it won’t be boring,” I said. “But it would mean a lot to me if you were there. I’ll pay for your flights or hotel or gas, whatever you need.”

“We’ll figure it out,” he said.

“How about at Waffle House, tomorrow morning?”

Conner laughed. “What do you think, we’re going to leave now? We could maybe get there in time for a late dinner tomorrow night.”

“No,” I said. “I meant the one by the house. In Florida. Oh, and I may need somewhere to stay tonight. Although I hope I won’t.”

“What are you—” And then it seemed to dawn on him. “Oh. Shit, Pheebs, are you driving down to talk to Sam?”