Page 78 of In Somnis

“You’re a chef?” he asks, visibly perking up, and I frown, wondering how that could have caught his interest.

“Yes… I am.”

Hopefully, that’s the only fun fact that sticks with him after the absolute word vomit I just unleashed.

“A fucking chef.” He huffs a quiet laugh, then glances down at the pile of things in his arms. “Of course.”

Of course, the chubby girl is a chef?

Heat crawls up my neck, but I don’t get the chance to decide whether I’m hurt or simply tired of being predictable.

He’s already walking again, so I follow him down a short hallway into what looks like a laundry room. He sets my things down on top of one of the machines, then checks the tags on the blanket and pillows with careful attention.

There are two washers and two dryers, all industrial-looking. The house itself could justify it, sure, but one guy living alone absolutely does not need a small commercial setup.

Maybe he separates darks, lights, and… evidence.

“These can go together,” he says more to himself than me.

“You don’t have to wash my stuff,” I protest weakly.

“It’s the least I can do. I’m the reason they’re dirty, and it won’t take long.” He’s already loading the machine. “And as I said, it can run while we take care of your scrapes.” He holds up the detergent. “Is this okay? Any sensitivities?”

“No,” I say softly. “That’s the same one I use.”

He nods once, satisfied, pours it in, but then stops his finger midway to start the cycle. He turns and looks me up and down, then walks past me and out of the laundry room with a, “Be right back.”

I trail after him into the living room, but he’s already disappearing up the stairs, so I stop and let myself look around again. There’s a monstera with leaves the size of serving trays, something tall and spindly I don’t recognize, and a few hanging plants spilling green down the walls as if they’re trying to escape their pots. A massive flat-screen television sits opposite a low couch, with a record player and neat stacks of vinyl beside it. The scent from the car lingers in here, too, roasted espresso.

The atmosphere is almost clinical.

So nobody can find DNA traces of his victims?

A minute later, he comes back down the stairs, and my brain promptly forgets how to function. He’s changed into gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt, the fabric stretched perfectly over his pecks, sleeves hugging his arms enough to make it obvious that he’s fit. Lean, yes, but not slight. Apparently, he has been hiding some muscles under that professor’s sweater. I only now realize that he’s tall too, not Nevan’s height, but still tall.

“Here.” He holds out a stack of clothes toward me. “For you.”

I don’t even spare them a glance. “No, thank you.”

“You’re wet and dirty,” he reasons. “Please change.”

I glance down at my damp sleeves and muddy hems, then at the very white furniture surrounding us. Right. Murderer or not, he definitely does not want street grime and rainwater on any of this.

Taking the clothes gingerly, I exhale before I give him the truth. “I don’t know if these will fit.”

“They might be a little long,” he shrugs. “We can roll them up.”

I sigh. That was not what I meant, but I nod and let him steer me toward the guest bathroom, which is beside the laundry room.

It’s spotless and weirdly roomy. You could spin around with your arms out and not hit anything. Thick chrome bars line the walls by the toilet and shower, the sort you see in hospitals or at your grandparents’ place.

They would have been so handy when I was caring for Mom.

I shut the door behind me and peel off my clothes until I’m standing there in just black lace underwear, only to discover that even my bra is damp from the muddy rainwater. I consider keeping it on anyway, but then I look at the white T-shirt he gave me.

Dammit.

My panties are miraculously still dry—story of my life—so I try the sweatpants first. I already know they won’t fit over my hips, but I try anyway, and when they don’t, the urge to cry rises, but I swallow it down and reach for the shirt and hoodie instead. They stretch awkwardly over my boobs, but I manage to yank them both on, hoping he won’t be mad that I’ve probably permanently altered his clothes.