Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 62480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
And this is absolutely a good thing. Though I locked the door to the research room last night before going to bed. I’m happy to see Grace. But explaining the contents of that room requires a long and involved conversation. One I need to work myself up to having with people.
“Heartbreak and humiliation seem to be messing with my sleep routine, so…”
“That sucks,” I say with a frown.
“Yeah. There’s a plate of pancakes in the fridge. You used to love those, right?”
“I still do.”
“Made them with Grandma’s secret recipe.”
“Pancake mix fresh out of the box?”
She gives me a wink. “When only the best will do. I trust you have some good real maple syrup to go with them?”
“Like they let you live in the state without it. I should ask Noah if he wants some.”
“I already did,” she says, “he said maybe later.”
We settle in the dining room next door. It’s impossible to be upset when you have pancakes. They just make the world a better place to be. In fact, her flirting with my neighbor doesn’t even matter. She peruses the accumulated junk on my table with an interested eye. A solid half of the space has been left clear for use. The rest has been given over to the detritus of my day-to-day life. Brochures, bills, and books mostly. Grace picks up a paperback. Not the one about starting a vegetable garden in your backyard. Nope. Not the monster fucking romance either. A shame, because they would have made for lighter conversation.
“Mindhunter,” she reads from the cover. “Is this about those serial killer profilers at the FBI?”
“Yeah.”
“I watched some of the TV series. Do you read much true crime?”
“It’s sort of part of a research-project-type thing. Guess I kind of have a love-hate relationship with the genre.”
“Makes sense.”
“Do you think?”
“Yes.” She takes a sip of coffee. “If it were me, I would want to understand what happened. Not only why he did the horrible things he did, but how other people in similar situations handled it.”
“Hmm. I keep thinking I’ll find something that explains everything. Just lays it all out for me. But I never do. My therapist thinks reading this stuff is bordering on being an unhealthy obsession.”
“What would they know?”
I snort. “Supposed professionals, right?”
“How often do you do therapy?”
“Once a month if my brain is being nice to me.”
She gives me a half smile. “In other news, your neighbor is hot as fuck.”
“We’re just friends.”
“I was actually thinking for me. But Sidney.” Grace cocks her head. “How is it you still can’t fake smile for shit?”
“Get out of here. My fake smile is excellent.”
“Sure. You keep telling yourself that.” She grins. “Out of respect for you, I guess I won’t hit on him.”
“Do what you want. Noah and I are just friends and that’s fine.”
She watches me with interest, waiting for more.
I eventually settle on saying, “My life isn’t the sort of situation most sane people want to be a part of.”
“But you’ve dated, right? After everything with Ryan?”
“Not so much.”
Her lips turn down at the edges. “That’s sad.”
“It’s also because I’m reluctant to put myself out there. And I am working on that.”
“Good.” Her smile returns. “Oh my, God. Do you remember Adam Moore?”
“There’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. We spent a whole summer staring at that poor boy.”
“Whatever happened to him?”
“Last time I saw him was senior prom,” I say. “He and his boyfriend seemed happy.”
She barks out a laugh.
Here’s another thing I forgot—how Grace lets the happy out good and loud. Back in the day, her mom would drive her out at the start of the summer and stay a night. Then do the same when it was time for my cousin to go home. Those were the only occasions Grace would turn down the volume on her laugh. We used to debate which was worse—a dead mom or a shitty one. Both probably require immense amounts of therapy.
Grace’s phone sits with its screen down on the table. A good idea for not getting distracted during a conversation. She picks up another book from the pile on the table. This time it’s I’ll Be Gone in the Dark by Michelle McNamara. My therapist might have a point with it being an obsession. “I know this one too,” says Grace. “He used to give me so much shit for watching true crime.”
“The ex-fiancé?”
She bares her teeth in a smile. “He said it was morbid and prurient. God, he used to go on at me. What do you think?”
“I think it’s complicated.”
“How so?”
“There’re some valid lizard brain reasons why watching true crime feels good. I mean it helps us become more aware of danger and hopefully learn how to avoid it. We’re educating ourselves, which can be useful. But then we also get to feel relieved that we’re not the victim, you know?”