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“Get one of the divers at the aquarium to hold a sign.”
Conner gave me a rueful smile. “Shani hates turtles.”
“Skywriting.”
“I looked into it,” he said. “Too expensive.”
Obviously, this was not my forte. I’d never proposed to anyone, much less been proposed to. I’d never even come close. And the idea of putting yourself out there that publicly, or having someone else put you on the spot for that public of a response... I’d rather watch the absolute darkest episode of48 Hoursthan that kind of horror. The “Nightmare in Napa” one, where thekiller turned out to be the now-husband of the victims’ roommate, the very same guy who’d given a sympathetic interview to48 Hoursbefore they knew it was him.
“Wait.” I finally caught up to what Conner had said. “Shani hates turtles? Not sharks or jellyfish or eels, butturtles?”
“They don’t have bodies inside their shells,” he said, “their bodiesaretheir shells. Freaks her out.”
“Got it.” I blinked away that information before moving on to the actual topic we were supposed to be discussing. “Anyway, like I said, I’ve been in contact with the real estate agent. She said there’s no way we can get the house perfect in time, so we should just clean it, spruce it up as much as we can, and prepare to sell for under market. We have to be careful not to sink too much money into it, too, because there won’t be a lot left over after Dad’s other debts are paid off.”
Conner’s brows knitted together. “What other debts?”
“A credit card that seemed to be mostly for Home Shopping Network purchases.” I paused. “Your student loans.”
“Ah,” Conner said. “Right.”
It killed me a little that he registered no guilt or chagrin over that at all. When our parents divorced, it turned out that their deal with each other was to take over all finances for the child in their full-time custody. So while our mom had refused to pay a cent toward my education, telling me I was eighteen and should start thinking of my own self-sufficiency, our dad had cosigned for Conner’s undergraduate studies.
“Which reminds me,” I said, “I have to finish my dissertation this summer so I can defend in the fall. I won’t have funding if I push it any further than that. I know you have your new job, soI’m not expecting you to come over every day or anything... but I really need you to carve out time on your weekends to help out. Okay?”
“Of course, Dr.Walsh,” Conner said. “What’s your dissertation about?”
I took a big gulp of my coffee, which had gone cold. “Not a doctor yet. And it’s about true crime as a genre,” I said, my pat explanation for when I didn’t really want to get into it more specifically. “The relationship between author and subject, our fascination with serial killers as a culture. That kind of thing.”
“Cheerful,” Conner said. “You gonna finish that waffle?”
I forked another bite into my mouth. “Back off, bro. The rest of this is mine.”
?THE QUESTION OFwhat to do about that behemoth of a writing desk reared its ugly head again once we got home. It was still sitting there, next to the front door. I guessed I should be relieved that the Midnight Mover didn’t extend his services to breaking and entering.
There was a nook in the living room, the perfect size for putting a piano if we’d been that kind of family, but instead my dad had thrown an old leather chair there and piled it high with stuff. I convinced Conner to help me move the chair to the middle of the living room and then shove the writing desk into the nook.
“Aren’t we”—Conner huffed as he struggled to get the desk through the door—“supposed to be taking thingsout?”
“This hunk of wood is the only thing I love in the entire world,” I said, before pinching my finger between the desk andthe wall and letting out a violent curse. I examined my reddened joint and started thinking about how hard it would be to type with a fractured finger before the pain dulled and went away. “Besides, I need it to work.”
I went to close the front door, but then I caught sight of a guy coming down the sidewalk. Not a guy.Theguy. The Midnight Mover.
Just as I was standing in the doorway, my heart beating out of my chest, he glanced up. He looked a bit more presentable in the daylight—khaki pants, white button-up shirt, brown hair brushed maybe, definitely wearing shoes at least. As I continued to stare, he lifted his hand in a wave.
I shut the door so fast it made my old guitar vibrate with a low, toneless buzz.
“What’s wrong?” Conner asked.
“It’s him,” I said, crossing over to the window to tweak the blinds and look out. “The guy who moved my desk for me last night.”
“Uh,” Conner said, “isn’t that what we just did? Or do you have two of these things?”
“No,” I said impatiently, not really wanting to get into the whole encounter. “It was strapped to the top of my car. He must’ve taken it down and brought it to the house.”
“That was nice,” Conner said. “Very neighborly.”
“He’s not a—” I started to say, then paused when I saw him getting into a truck in the driveway next door and backing out onto the street. Huh. He was a neighbor.
