Sam looked affronted. “I’ve been keeping you posted on the winners, haven’t I?”
I waved a dismissive hand. “It’s not the same.” Reality television had long been a guilty pleasure of mine, and Sam’s dry summaries just didn’t cut it. “Anyway, you’re coming with me tomorrow night, right?”
“Of course,” he said. “This was my idea in the first place, right?”
“It really was.”
“If you’re meeting him at eight, I should pick you up around seven forty-five. Will that work?”
“Yeah. I’ll be just getting off my shift at the library.” The library hosted special activities for kids on Tuesday evenings, meaning it would be all hands on deck until seven-thirty. In all honesty, I loved Tuesday nights at the library. There was usually some kind of arts and crafts–related activity, and I could pretend for a little while that creating was still a significant part of my life.
I’d made a mental note to leave out my Sesame Street–themed Reading Is for Winners! T-shirt when I started packing. The library liked us to dress up for the kids on Tuesdays.
“Great,” Sam said. “If I pick you up then, we’ll have plenty of time to get to the apartment. Although . . .”
He trailed off and looked down at his coffee.
I recognized that worried look. “What is it?”
He hesitated. “It’s . . . probably nothing. But you should know I couldn’t find a Frederick J. Fitzwilliam earlier today when I Googled him.”
I stared at him. “What?”
“Yeah.” Sam sipped his coffee, looking contemplative. “If my criminal justice clinic taught me anything it’s that you should never move in with someone without looking them up first. So I tried searching for him online, figuring that with a name like Frederick J. Fitzwilliam I’d find him in two seconds, but . . .”
He shook his head.
That ever-present knot of anxiety in the pit of my stomach cinched itself a little tighter. “Nothing?”
“Nothing,” Sam confirmed. “I even checked the Cook County criminal docket. There is nothing anywhere about a Frederick J. Fitzwilliam.” He paused. “It’s like he doesn’t exist.”
I sat there, stunned. In an age where everything about everyone was knowable with a simple two-minute internet search, how was it possible that Sam hadn’t found anything?
“Maybe it’s a fake name he’s giving to people asking about the apartment,” Sam suggested. “Craigslist can be creepy. Maybe he wants to stay anonymous.”
That made me feel a little better. Because that sounded plausible. I thought back to a time in college when I wish I’d thought to give a fake name to someone on Craigslist. I graduated ten years ago, and the Younker College Literary Society still wouldn’t leave me alone.
“Yeah,” I said. “Though if he wanted to stay anonymous, why’d he bother including an email address in the post? He could have just used the anonymous email account Craigslist automatically generates for people placing ads.”
Silence stretched between us as we both pondered what all this could mean, interrupted only by the muffled sound of traffic from the street outside my window.
Eventually, I leaned towards Sam and asked, “If this guy turns out to be the next Jeffrey Dahmer, promise me you’ll avenge my death?”
Sam snorted. “I thought you wanted me to go with you. If he’s the next Dahmer, we’ll both be screwed. Also possibly dead.”
I hadn’t considered that. “Good point.” I thought a moment. “Maybe wait in the car. I’ll text you once I’m inside. If I’m not out in thirty minutes, call the police.”
“Of course,” Sam said, smiling again. Only this time, his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was always terrible at hiding his concern from me. “You know, if Scott and I consolidated some of our wedding stuff, I’m sure we could make room for you until you found something more permanent.”
I swallowed around the lump in my throat at his renewed offer. “Thanks,” I said, meaning it. I had to avert my eyes before adding, “I’ll . . . give it some thought.”
TWO
FJF’s To-Do List: October 15
Dust sitting room furniture.
Vacuum spare bedroom.
Purchase decoy foodstuffs for both fridge & pantry in advance of Miss Cassie Greenberg’s visit.
Should Miss Greenberg not wish to let the spare room, ask Reginald how to include photographs in the advertisement to avoid unnecessary future interactions with applicants.