Love in the Time of Serial Killers(9)

“Pheebs,” Conner said, “this again? Dude, chill.”

I’d never been chill in my entire life. “His name is Sam Dennings,” I said, then corrected myself, as though this were an official background check and I needed to use his legal name. “Samuel. Around my age, give or take a few years. Occupation unknown but dresses like he works at a Verizon kiosk.”

Conner sighed. “He just moved in around a year ago,” he said. “The whole time I lived there, the neighbors on that side were that older couple who would groom their dogs in the driveway. What were their names? They didn’t like us, you could tell.”

Randy and Viv. I remembered them now. They had two bark-y Collies, and you knew when they’d recently been groomed because tufts of their hair would float in the air for weeks afterward. And yeah, they’d low-key hated us. Probably because when my parents were married there was a lot of yelling and not a lot of landscaping going on.

“I didn’t even know his name until you said it,” Conner said. “But he seems fine. You should be nice to him. We may need his help moving stuff.”

Even now that my dad was gone, I still had a visceral reaction to the idea that anyone who wasn’t family or an emergency HVAC technician would ever set foot inside this house. Growing up, that was always the way it had been. The only friend I’d ever been allowed to have over had been Alison, and that was only after I’d cleaned half the house and promised we’d stay confined to my room.

Given the way our friendship had ended, though, it was better not to think about just how small my trusted circle had gotten after my parents’ divorce.

Over the line, I heard some muffled talking, and then Conner was back. “Shani says hi,” he said, and then apparently held the phone up for her to speak, because I heard a distant, tinny “Hi, Phoebe!” and then some rustling and Shani’s voice up close.

“I came across a book the other day and grabbed it for you,” she said. “You don’t have to read it, but I thought it might be helpful.”

“Tell me it’s Helter Skelter and I’ll name my firstborn after you,” I said.

She laughed, but I could tell it was more out of confusion than humor. “No, it’s called”—more rustling, before she read out the title in a semitriumphant voice—“Life after Loss: Teens Talk about Grief. I know you’re not a teen, obviously. But since I know that’s also around the age you were when you and your dad were estranged . . .”

She trailed off, perhaps recognizing that she might’ve overstepped a boundary. I liked Shani. She was one of those people you described as sweet and meant it. But yeah, I didn’t particularly want to talk about my dead father or the nonrelationship we’d had.

“Thanks,” I said. That one word was doing a lot of heavy lifting lately.

“Well,” she said. “I’ll bring it when we come on Saturday. If you’d find it helpful.”

Never in a million years would I read that book, and definitely not right now, when I only had time to read works I could lovingly format into MLA style. “Sure,” I said. “Maybe Conner would want to borrow it first.”

Shani hadn’t been around me long enough to recognize when I was being tongue-in-cheek, but my brother definitely clocked it. Apparently they were on speakerphone together. “Conner already has a reading list from his therapist,” he put in.

“You’re seeing a therapist?”

“Yeah, dude,” he said. “You probably should be, too. It’d be a perfect place to talk shit about our parents and explore why you’re so obsessed with this neighbor.”

That made me flush, which I was grateful Conner couldn’t see over the phone. “Not obsessed,” I said. “Curious. Suspicious, even.”

“Tomato, potato,” Conner said. “If you’d really been worried you would’ve called nine-one-one instead of me.”

Well. He had a point there. “There are other community numbers you can call before resorting to the police,” I said stiffly. “I just wanted to ask you to pick up some boxes.”

“Sure.”

“I swear, that’s the reason I called!”

“If you say so. I can get some.”

“And not ones that say Smirnoff all over them, please,” I said. “Real moving boxes, in a few different sizes.”

My brother’s pause was long enough that I knew absolutely he’d been planning to raid a liquor store dumpster. “I’ll buy some boxes,” he said. “But Phoebe?”

“Yeah?”

“Chill.”

And I would’ve had a snappy comeback to that, only he laughed and hung up. Apparently obnoxiousness aged in little brothers like a fine wine.

I glanced out the blinds one more time, but the street was dark. Even my mysterious neighbor had gone to bed.





FOUR





PULLING UP TO the library the next day was an immediate kick to my nostalgic solar plexus. I’d gone there almost every Saturday when I was a kid, just to check out the Fear Street books again or see how much of a large-print Harlequin I could read before my mom caught me and yanked me out of the section. She should’ve been relieved that I was getting my sex education that way instead of porn.