Love in the Time of Serial Killers

by Alicia Thompson

I’d rather be seen as a little rude than risk being taken to a second location.

Was he nice, or performing niceness? Had moving the desk been a way to make me feel subtly indebted to him? Secrecy was a practical necessity if you had something to hide; politeness was social chloroform.

Lately it felt like my entire life was one big AITA thread and the answer was always yes, it’s me, I’m the asshole.

“Equating an occupation’s projected societal ethos with an individual’s personal morality is one reason why our police force is so fucked in this country.”

Sam looked like he gave great hugs, and I’d wanted one so bad. Disgusting.

This was why I preferred to keep people at arm’s length. Things got so much more complicated when you actually cared if someone sent you a text, or accepted an invitation, or wanted to hang out.

“True crime is especially interesting,” I said, “because it tends to reflect and shape our cultural attitudes toward crime in general.

I didn’t want to have a fling with my neighbor. Just like I didn’t want a cat, I didn’t want to be friends with Alison again, I didn’t want to stay here any longer than I had to. It was exhausting, not wanting things.

But jokes had also always been one of my safest ways of expressing myself—sometimes allowing me to skate around what I wanted to say, other times allowing me to crash right into it and then later deny I’d meant to.

The pulsing heartbeat of true crime, of all human stories when you got right down to it, was we all wanted and hoped and dreamed and loved, but we had no control over what happened in the end.

“These books promise closure and justice,” I said to Lenore, scratching her under the chin. “But ultimately they reinforce the reality that so many lives are interrupted, so many dreams unfulfilled.”

“We know it’s going to change,” he said, resting his forehead against mine. “That doesn’t necessarily mean end, unless you want it to. You have my full attention, Phoebe. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I don’t regret any of it,” Sam said. “Not the last few weeks, not today, not even saying someday to that kid if that’s what set this off. I don’t regret giving you my heart, Phoebe. I just wish you’d taken more care with it.”

“I’m not afraid of that word anymore,” I said. “I’m still afraid of a lot of things, most of them very specific scenarios involving being taken to a second location. But I’m not afraid of this, of loving you or being loved by you.”