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Obviously he ended up coming, eventually. And we packed up the car and never said a word about it.
“You played Rock, Paper, Scissors with me,” Conner said. “While we waited. I remember that because I didn’t believe you that paper beat rock.”
“You said that rock would rip paper to shreds.”
“Was I wrong?” Conner asked. “Rock is overpowered. It can crush some scissors but it can’t do shit to paper? Please.”
He looked back down at the book in his hands. In a strange way, I was relieved that glancing at it had made him think about our childhood like that. It meant I wasn’t alone.
I’d realized in reading it that one of the main reasons I found myself drawn to the narrative was because of all the ways it made me think about my own father. Not because I thought my dad could be the Sunrise Slayer, or whatever equivalent, but because there were parts of the author’s childhood that felt too familiar to ignore. How they would walk on eggshells around her dad whenever he was in a “mood.” How everyone knew not to touch his stuff or ask any questions. How there were these moments of real affection and happiness, but they would always feel distant and doubted later, under the weight of other memories.
“I don’t know how you sleep, reading this kind of thing,” Conner said.
“It’s better than melatonin.”
“Really?”
I gave a little laugh. “No,” I said. “Not really. Currently, I don’t sleep much. But that’s to be expected with the dissertation and with—” I gestured around the living room.
“Your nighttime surveillance activities?”
I pulled a face, snatching the book from him. “Those have mostly stopped, thank you very much,” I said. Or at least, Sam hadn’t been up to anything interesting lately. No more suspicious sounds or mysterious items being moved from his truck to the garage late at night. In fact, it had been fairly quiet next door since the party, with the exception of a single splash I’d heard the other night around eleven, as though Sam were taking a late-night dip in his pool.
Conner gathered up a box he’d put together of stuff he wanted to take to his apartment, stopping briefly one more time at the door before heading out. “All I’m saying is, maybe it’s time to callCrime Stoppers if you think your neighbor’s up to something so bad.”
It was so tempting to hurl the book at Conner, but it was property of the library and I wanted to be able to return it in one piece. “I don’t,” I said. “I was just giving in momentarily to the paranoia that is my evolutionary birthright for survival. You can let it go now. I have.”
“Mmm,” Conner said. “That’s a shame.”
“Why’s that?”
Conner gave me an infuriating smirk. “Because,” he said. “I happen to know from Josue that Sam findsyouvery interesting, as well.”
EIGHT
THE SECOND TIMEI went to the library, Alison was there again, working behind the counter. Luckily she was busy helping another patron, so I slid the serial killer’s daughter’s memoir in the book return slot and made my way upstairs before she saw me.
I wasn’t looking for anything particular in the true crime section—just looking to be inspired. I should be writing aboutIn Cold Bloodright now, had no idea why I was putting it off. It was arguably the book that had gotten me the most excited to write about the genre, although maybe that was the problem. Maybe I was starting to feel the pressure.
There was another book on the shelf about the Sunrise Slayer. This one was more standard true crime fare, a black cover with the title written in matte red letters, a grid of eight pictures underneath. It looked like a cross between a 1980s Stephen King novel and a grisly yearbook. I grabbed it and started backdownstairs, heading to one of the self-service kiosks in the middle of the main floor.
OUT OF ORDER
Please bring your items to the front desk for checkout.
I stood for a minute, just staring at the office paper taped to the front of each of the machines, the message typed out in efficient Times New Roman. I glanced over at the front counter to verify what I already knew with a sinking feeling in my stomach. Currently, Alison was the only staff member stationed behind the main computer, which meant that there would be no way for me to avoid her if I checked the book out.
I wanted to read the book. I didn’t want to have to talk to Alison. It seemed like an impossible conundrum.
So naturally, I went back upstairs, plopped myself at a study table, and opened the book to begin reading.
It was weird that with all my interest in true crime I’d never really read much about this serial killer who’d struck so close to home. He’d earned his moniker by mostly attacking women on their morning jogs—this, of course, being the reason why you’d never catch me pounding pavement, my earbuds blasting Paramore so loud I couldn’t hear the inevitable threat. Also, because jogging sucked.
The real surprise in the book was the way he’d been caught. They’d suspected him for a decade, all the way into the midnineties, because he lived nearby and had been stopped by a police officer once for peeping in windows. But it actually ended upbeing the daughter who inadvertently provided a crucial piece of evidence that allowed them to put everything together.
Her home had been burglarized, and she filled out a report listing all the items that had been stolen. Among them was an innocuous piece of jewelry—a thin gold chain with a bird pendant. She described the bird as more swallow than dove, its wings spread. There was a staff member who’d recently been recataloging cold case files, and the description struck a chord. A necklace with a similar description had been one of the items believed removed from a victim of the Sunrise Slayer’s, almost fifteen years earlier.
I had to sit back after reading that whole passage. In her whole memoir about her father the serial killer, the daughter had never mentioned that detail. It seemed like a huge omission. She’d been given the most macabre gift possible, and then her description of that gift was what, in a roundabout way, landed her father in prison.
