EverlynneL: Okay. Can I pick him up now, then?
DominicG: Give me twenty.
EverlynneL: Thanks.
DominicG: Pick up doughnuts on your way here.
EverlynneL: Excuse me?
DominicG forwards me a copy of my post.
DominicG: Says right here. REWARD. Doughnuts are my reward.
I’m encouraged by his odd request. No murderer I’ve ever heard of ever left a half-eaten box of Dunkies at the scene of the crime. And I listen to a lot of morbid podcasts.
EverlynneL: Cheap date. Noted.
DominicG: Glazed. The real stuff. No strawberry frost or chocolate. Any of those fake, pretentious doughnuts.
EverlynneL: Fine. Just don’t be an axe murderer.
DominicG: No promises.
FOUR
Dominic lives on historic Chestnut Street, which confirms my suspicion that he is, as my dad likes to put it, doing well for himself.
He mentioned something about coming home in the middle of the night in our conversation. I bet he is the clubbing type. I buzz when I reach his building. It’s a black multiapartment complex that looks luxurious and understated at the same time. It sticks out like a sore thumb in the middle of the redbrick street: a giant modern middle finger.
Dominic buzzes me up but doesn’t answer when I hit the intercom. I cringe, balancing the box of doughnuts in my hand. If this is how I die, it’s going to be a sad way to go. In the elevator on my way up, I shoot Nora a quick message, explaining that someone answered my Craigslist post, and that I’m picking Loki up at this address. The elevator dings. I tuck my phone into the back pocket of my jeans and pour myself out once I reach his floor, heading for apartment number 911, of all numbers.
I knock on the door. It swings open immediately, like the person behind it has been waiting.
And the person behind it is . . . well, obnoxiously, freakishly, creepily perfect.
Dominic stares back at me with eyes the color of marble. The gray and blue swirl together, fighting for dominance. His hair is cut short and neat. The geometry of his face is so precise, so sculpted, he almost looks like a different species. A better species, to be sure. He’s the kind of beautiful that makes someone become a douchebag. A young Alain Delon doppelg?nger, if I had to describe him.
He is also wearing green scrubs.
That’s why he came back in the middle of the night, you Judgy Janet, you. Not because he went clubbing. Because he was busy saving lives.
“Hey, EverlynneL. No. Don’t come in just yet.” He grabs the box of doughnuts from my hand, flashing me a sweet, dimpled smile. “We have a hostage situation here. I need to check my demands have been met in full.”
“It’s all there,” I say in a deadpan. “Bankrolled into wads of sugar.”
He flips the box open and sees six glazed doughnuts and two chocolate-with-sprinkles doughnuts for me.
He looks up, frowning. “Your chocolate is touching my real doughnuts.”
“Don’t be such a purist.”
“I don’t like chocolate.”
“Tell me you’re a sociopath without telling me you’re a sociopath.” I roll my eyes.
“She’s onto me.” Dominic’s flawless face breaks into a grin. “Time to lure her in before she calls the cops.”
“See, you may want to think this and not actually say it out loud next time. Haven’t you read Serial Killing for Dummies?”
“It’s in my curriculum for next year. I’m just a freshman killer. Come on in.”
After this exchange, I find that my anxiety and worry somewhat disappear. DominicG has a midwestern, all-around-good-guy vibe about him. I follow him inside, still clutching my phone in a death grip.
“This way. He is still on the balcony.” Dominic motions to me with his hand. His apartment is small but neat. It smells like new paint and untouched books and the cleaning products they use in hotels. I recognize some of the furniture as IKEA. The Lack side table and Klippan love seat. Every twentysomething’s staples.
It’s easy for me to admire Dominic, for the same reason I like his apartment. They’re both gorgeous, clinical, and not my type. Not that I really have a type in men. I haven’t dated anyone since Joe. But something about Dominic’s perfectness puts me off. I’m sure he feels the same way about my averageness. Guys like him end up marrying women with endless legs and pronounced cheekbones and toenails that are always painted the right color for the season.
He pushes the balcony door open, still holding the doughnuts, and I come face-to-face with my traitorous cat. Loki offers me one slow, leisured blink. He is largely unmoved by my presence.