Killers Club Thriller Series: Books 1-3 Digital Box Set

By D.K. Greene

The Killers Club Thriller Series: Books 1-3 by author D.K. Greene brings readers to the idyllic small towns and wandering forests of the Pacific Northwest. But the dappled shade of high reaching pines hides a gut-wrenching thriller packed with family drama, double lives, and dark wit that leaves readers desperate for more.

Discover twists and turns in this three book series, plus bonus short story now!

BONUS: KILLERS CLUB SHORT STORY Oliver Roberts is one of the most famous serial killers in history, but after two decades in prison, he vows to make a change. Oliver agrees to help solve the cold cases that everyone suspects he's responsible for, but each hidden body comes at a terrible price...

WHERE BODIES LIE Peter Wilson has the perfect life and a devastating secret. Everything unravels the moment the FBI shows up on his doorstep with a message from his convict father. A serial killer guilty of a spree that spanned decades, Oliver Roberts tells the FBI he is ready to confess to another murder. But he will only tell one person: His son, Peter. When he agrees to hear his father's confession, Peter confronts a family legacy steeped in fear, manipulation, and murder.

INCREASED MORTALITY Samantha Knowles is a nurse haunted by her past. She finds solace in a calm maternity ward, but Sam's world turns upside down when her patients die and she becomes the prime suspect in a murder investigation. With the FBI hot on her trail, Sam's world turns upside down, allowing the real killer to prey on more innocent victims.

BOUND TO DECEIVE FBI agents Richard Douglas and Mac Jones are on a mission to find a powerful politician's missing daughter and bring the kidnapper to justice. But a devastating secret puts Mac in the crosshairs and she's viciously abducted by the very kidnapper they've been tracking. With Mac's life hanging in the balance, Richard faces his darkest demons, and risks everything to save his partner.

From the first confession to the final blow, Greene pens an unputdownable tale that grips the heart and keeps you begging for more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.K. Greene
• Release date: Apr 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224341467

D.K. Greene

D.K. Greene writes at a small folding table below a tiny window overlooking a narrow street. While her work area is small, she has an overwhelmingly large imagination. It all comes out in strings of stories about family, fraud, and fatal events. Readers can get an insider's look at her upcoming projects, promotions and free stories by going to https://www.subscribepage.com/dkgreene

Book preview

Killers Club Series Complete Set

Killers Club

Where Bodies Lie

Increased Mortality

Bound to Deceive

D.K. Greene

Published by Kawaii Times

KawaiiTimes.com

PO Box 121, Longview, WA 98632

First Edition, April, 2024

©2024 D.K. Greene

All rights reserved.

Editing provided by Cora Corrigall

www.inkmodifications.com

Cover images and elements purchased from Shutterstock.com and DepositPhotos.com.

This is a work of fiction. The author has created names, characters, and incidents to fit this story. Locations are either the product of D.K. Greene’s overactive imagination or are used fictitiously for entertainment purposes. Any resemblance to persons living, dead, reanimated, cloned, or uploaded to a digital reality platform is coincidental. No dogs were fed cake during the making of this series.

No part of this published work may be reproduced, stored, transmitted, or shared on any public platform (electronic, mechanical, or otherwise), or used for machine learning without the expressed prior written permission of D.K. Greene and KawaiiTimes.com.

Contents

Killers Club

Where Bodies Lie

Increased Mortality

Bound to Deceive

Author's Note

About the author

Gratitude from the pages of Bound to Deceive

More Series by D.K. Greene

Killers Club

Prequel Short Story

D.K. Greene

Contents

Killers Club

Killers Club

The air is thick in the warden’s office. Oliver Ollie Roberts watches the computer’s screensaver on the cockeyed computer monitor as if it were a window. Orange and red leaves fan across the screen on a simulated crisp fall wind. It’s been so long since he felt a breeze on his skin that he struggles to remember what it feels like.

Ollie shifts his attention to Warden Hazel. He’s middle-aged and prides himself on his old-school approach to running the prison. Today is Wednesday, the day Warden Hazel props himself up in a sparse office near the correctional facility’s nurse station. The rest of the week, Hazel is in his other office… the one in the administration building where wooden pencils, razor-sharp scissors, staplers, and pens you can shank someone with are kept.

But Wednesdays, he’s here, in the thick air of the secure building where his wards are kept. The one day a week he can feel like a real lawman. Ollie imagines the warden craves the feeling of danger that comes from walking the corridors with people too menacing to be out in the world.

Of course, the danger isn’t as real as it had been when Ollie first came to the prison. Back when muscles clung to Ollie’s wiry frame, corrections officers still carried keys and the cameras were both few in number and limited in their ability to see the inmates with clarity. These days, it would take some doing for Warden Hazel to see the end of a razor whip. His office may be close enough to smell the putrid scent of sweat stained socks and skivvies wafting down from the laundry, but the office is protected by six remote-locked doors, twelve color cameras, and an army of officers ready to subdue anyone who might look at them sideways.

The only reason Ollie is even allowed back here is because the combination of advanced age and reoccurring pneumonia have caused the staff to deem him unthreatening. If only they knew…

Another Bible study group. Warden Hazel interrupts Ollie’s thoughts as he pulls off his glasses and shakes his head. He reaches across his barrel chest to rub the lenses on his too-small shirt before returning them to rest on the tip of his bulbous nose. What the hell’s wrong with the Tuesday group?

Ollie looks at his shoes, doing his best to look downtrodden. The canvas slip-ons rest perfectly even, side-by-side below the edge of his chair. The rubber sole of his right shoe flopped loosely on his walk through the prison corridors. He thinks about the rogue sole catching on the chair leg when he stands up at the end of this meeting. He imagines himself falling. Maybe he’ll hit his head on the desk’s sharp corner. If it tears the skin and cracks his skull open, Ollie wonders what pattern the blood might make as it oozes out of him.

It doesn’t matter what the blood splatter experts say. Ollie knows firsthand that blood never runs the same way twice.

Once he’s sure the worry lines have deepened around his eyes, Ollie looks up. I’ve been asked to not participate in that group.

The warden frowns. Sympathy for career killers is not his strong suit. I’ve heard the complaints. I’ve made it clear you’re allowed in. Same as everyone else.

Ollie nods. Yes, but it isn’t working. I understand why my being there is hard for them. I’d hate to encroach on their ability to share openly in the Lord. Besides, it isn’t just me. They have a distaste for Sanders and Winter, too. Let’s just say our presence doesn’t do much in the way of inspiring faith in others.

Warden Hazel smirks at The Godless Killer, a man who’s killed more people than can be counted. Of course, he’d make friends with Sanders, who hung his neighbor on a clothesline like wet trousers. And Winter, who loved his wife so much he kept her in a chilled wine cabinet after he accidentally choked the life out of her. Your little killers club makes the gangbangers nervous. That doesn’t mean I have to staff a whole new program. There’s no payoff. No benefit to the prison.

Ollie nods, hiding his eagerness behind the worry of his shoe’s loose rubber. He tries to avoid being distracted by Warden Hazel’s comment about the others. It’s true, many of them are also murderers. A few even carry multiple counts of homicide around like badges of honor. But their acts of cruelty were born from the erratic chaos of drug wars and gang rivalries. A couple in the church study group killed over lust or greed.

Anyone can wave a gun around and hit something if they try hard enough. Ollie doubts any of the younger lifers had the foresight to pause and count the teardrops caught in their victim’s fluttering eyelashes. Or had a desire to sniff the air to catch the scent of another being’s last breath.

Ollie shakes his head, pushing the thoughts from his mind. He focuses again on the shoe. On what would happen if he fell. Of the pain that could come. How it would ruin everything.

He forces trembling notes of worry into his voice when he speaks. It could help. It might distract us from our misery and keep us, and the others, from giving anyone a hard time. It would be helpful to be kept busy praying so we don’t get stuck on thinking how to cause problems.

"Why do you really want this Bible study?" The warden leans forward. Thin strands of blonde catch the light of the yellow lamp behind him, causing his halo of hair to take on the glow of a very conservative angel.

I’ve come to terms with my wrongdoing over the past two decades. If I could, I’d go back out there and make a difference in the world. But, as it stands, that will never happen. Ollie lets a solemn tear cut a trail down his cheek. I still have a calling. A duty to better myself and others. I’ll never be free again, but if I can give someone else the strength to make a change, none of this will have been in vain.

Hazel shakes his head. I can’t just let a serial murderer start a prayer group.

Ollie slumps against the hard plastic of the industrial chair the warden has reserved for his guests. Warden Hazel shifts and the light moves from behind his head. The magic of the moment is broken. Once again, he’s just a man in uniform, following someone else’s law.

Is there anything I can do to change your mind? Ollie asks, his voice tentative.

What is it you Christians say? Actions speak louder than words… The warden points at a thick file on his desk. Ollie doesn’t have to look at the name written on the folder to know it’s his. You and I both know this file is less than a third the size it should be. I get letters every month from families, reporters, lawyers, and judges wanting to get their hands on you. People want to know where the rest of the victims are, Mister Roberts.

The warden rises from his oversized executive chair and moves around to the front of the desk. He sits on the edge of the laminated wood, one leg on the ground to support his weight. You want to put together a special murder-only prayer group? Let go of some of those secrets. Then, we’ll talk.

Ollie wants to grin, to crinkle his eyes in merriment at the bargain placed before him. He’d already chosen which of his victims to bargain with. Carol was perfect. She wasn’t too far up the highway… just a morning’s drive away. And besides, throwing the warden one of her bones wasn’t going to be any skin off Ollie’s nose.

He had plenty of other secrets to keep to himself.

The warden hasn’t learned, even after all his years sitting in this stuffy office behind that cheap pressboard desk. Oliver Roberts always gets what he wants.

This time, what he wants goes far beyond the iron bars and stone walls that contain him. I have much to atone for, it’s true. But I don’t think my heart can take sitting in an interview room with another of those bloodthirsty lawyers.

Warden Hazel snorts. Funny, I wouldn’t think you’d be nervous where blood is involved.

Ollie feels the tingle of rage pulling at the back of his skull, but he takes a deep breath and forces a meek expression to his face. Those talks get rather intense. The last time I met with an attorney, it appeared the officer in charge of monitoring our conversation didn’t hear anything when things got out of hand.

Warden Hazel brushes an invisible piece of lint from his thigh. We do what we can to keep everyone protected.

Ollie nods, even though what he really wants is to punch the khaki colored crotch dangling off the desk in front of him. Be that as it may, I’m not sure my ticker can handle having my life threatened by someone not wearing a jumpsuit. I’m not as young as I used to be.

Well, if you won’t talk, then I don’t think there’s anything I can do about your request. Warden Hazel reaches behind himself and shoves Ollie’s file off the desk and into the recycle bin.

I didn’t say I wouldn’t talk. Just not to someone I don’t know. Ollie notices Hazel trying to hide his smirk. Ollie decides to stroke his ego a little more. I don’t have much to bargain with, aside from all these memories of remorse. Truthfully, I’m ready to part with them.

Deputy Hazel crosses his arms, resting them over his belly where one of his shirt buttons has come undone. If you won’t talk to an attorney, who do you want to talk to? That old pal of yours from the F.B.I.? I heard he’s getting ready to retire. Not sure he’s going to want to make the hike out here to rehash old times.

Inspector Douglas? Oh, yes, he’d probably be worth giving a call. He’ll be able to find out how to reach my son, Ollie says with a thoughtful nod.

Your son, Deputy Hazel says, his eyebrow rising as he speaks. What does he have to do with anything?

He’s the one I want to tell, Ollie answers. He watches the warden shift uncomfortably on the desk. There’s no one I’d feel more comfortable sharing the intimate details with than my boy. He knew some of them, after all. It might give him some closure.

That’s one hell of a thing to share with your kid, Oliver. The warden peels himself off the desk’s corner, walks around the far side, and pulls Ollie’s file out of the bin.

He’s a grown man now. He’ll handle it. Oliver presses his hands over his knees, preparing to be dismissed from the warden’s office. If he helps get those cases rolling, I can have my weekly meeting?

Warden Hazel waves Ollie off. I’ll make a few calls. If your kid can be found, decides to come in, and is willing to help settle some cold cases, we’ll talk about your little club.

Ollie allows half a smile to prick his lips. He stands, offering the warden a handshake. Pleasure doing business with you, Sir.

Hazel looks down at the pale, wrinkled hand with disgust. He gazes past Ollie, nodding at the deputy standing on the other side of the office door’s viewing window. He presses a button alerting the control room to unlock his door. Wish the feeling were mutual. Good day, Mister Roberts.

Blessed be, Ollie answers as his hands are cuffed behind his back by strong arms eager to take him away. As he’s escorted toward general population, he begins whistling Cocaine Blues… his favorite tune.

Where Bodies Lie

Book One

D.K. Greene

Contents

1. Chapter 1

2. Chapter 2

3. Chapter 3

4. Chapter 4

5. Chapter 5

6. Chapter 6

7. Chapter 7

8. Chapter 8

9. Chapter 9

10. Chapter 10

11. Chapter 11

12. Chapter 12

13. Chapter 13

14. Chapter 14

15. Chapter 15

16. Chapter 16

17. Chapter 17

18. Chapter 18

19. Chapter 19

20. Chapter 20

21. Chapter 21

22. Chapter 22

23. Chapter 23

24. Chapter 24

25. Chapter 25

26. Chapter 26

27. Chapter 27

28. Chapter 28

29. Chapter 29

30. Chapter 30

31. Chapter 31

32. Chapter 32

33. Chapter 33

34. Chapter 34

35. Chapter 35

36. Chapter 36

37. Chapter 37

38. Chapter 38

39. Chapter 39

40. Chapter 40

41. Chapter 41

42. Chapter 42

43. Chapter 43

44. Chapter 44

45. Chapter 45

46. Chapter 46

47. Chapter 47

48. Chapter 48

49. Chapter 49

50. Chapter 50

51. Chapter 51

52. Chapter 52

53. Chapter 53

54. Chapter 54

55. Chapter 55

56. Chapter 56

57. Chapter 57

58. Chapter 58

59. Chapter 59

60. Chapter 60

61. Chapter 61

62. Chapter 62

63. Chapter 63

Chapter one

He sees his name printed on the desk calendar, circled twice in bold, red strokes. He’s been Peter Samuel Wilson longer than either he or his caseworker expected. His last three identities ended in abrupt chaos. The repeating string of stalkers, concerned neighbors, and paparazzi appear to have finally ended. Two decades in hiding, and it seems the world has finally forgotten him.

This time, he’s maintained an identity long enough to get a degree, land a decent mid-level engineering job, and even celebrate an anniversary with a girlfriend. He finally has the average American life he’s always wanted.

Almost.

If life were normal, Peter wouldn’t be in a therapy session with a woman who doesn’t know his true name. He can see how their future appointments will play out. She’ll spend weeks trying to solve the puzzle of his anxiety and crippling fear of abandonment. They’ll analyze the supposed meaning behind clips of nightmares and a muted version of his flashbacks. Peter already knows why he’s suffering, but he can’t tell her that. Maybe she’ll figure it out before he has to quit again.

If anyone knew he was in therapy, without being able to tell the therapist why he needs to see her, they might tell him he’s wasting his time. And maybe he is. But it makes Peter feel better to talk about the contrast of the chaos in his head and the banality of his twisted version of a normal man’s problems. Since he doesn’t have friends, his only option is to pay someone to listen.

He scans the room. The therapist has a smattering of photos propped on her desk and crowding books on nearby shelves. They depict her with a close friend, or perhaps, her sister. Their arms interlock in some. In others, they gaze at the camera cheek-to-cheek. They look solid together. He wonders what it would be like to have a relationship like that.

Peter? Doctor Richards uncrosses her legs and leans forward. As her soft bronze skin scoots against the leather chair her knee-length skirt raises up her thigh an inch.

Yes? Peter realizes his gaze has lingered a moment too long when her hand tugs the fabric down to the top of her knee. He snaps his focus to her eyes.

We’re about halfway through your session. You haven’t said much. Is there anything you’d like to talk about today?

I’m sorry, Doctor. I’ve never done this before. I guess I’m not sure what to say. Peter tightens the skin on his forehead, drawing his eyebrows together. He lifts his shoulders, attempting to look unsure of himself. It’s a lie. This is his sixth attempt at therapy since leaving foster care. Now solidly in his thirties, he has to ignore the pursuits that came before Peter Wilson was breathed into reality. It’s easy to pretend it’s all new. Makes for a simple excuse to explain away all the things he can’t say.

Please, call me Jeanne. She turns crimson lips into a practiced smile designed to break down barriers and open a client up. Police interviewers and social workers do the same thing when they talk to kids. Let’s start with why you came in today.

Okay, Jeanne. Peter looks down at the hands folded in his lap. One of his thumbs twitches involuntarily. It’s been an embarrassment since middle school. No matter what combination of medications, physical conditioning, or behavioral intervention he’s tried, he’s never been able to shake it. Well, I guess I just wanted someone to talk to.

She nods. Do you have many friends?

No, Peter admits. His throat is dry, and he wishes the water tank in the front office hadn’t been empty when he’d come in. He’d kill for a glass of water.

What about family? Jeanne reaches for a pad of paper on the small table beside her and scribbles a note.

My mom died when I was twelve. Peter tries to appear sad, the way someone who lost a parent should. The funny thing is, despite the lies he’ll tell Jeanne over the coming weeks, this story is true. But after so many years without her, he’s not torn up about it anymore.

Jeanne’s face takes on the same practiced sadness Peter’s expressing. And your father?

We don’t talk. Peter fidgets in his chair, unsure of whether to say more. His thumb twitches more noticeably now, and he clamps his other hand over it to keep it from jumping around his lap. The words he wants to say wrestle on his tongue. Eventually, he blurts out, He’s incarcerated.

Jeanne takes the information in stride. It must be strange to spend every day talking to people with crazy families. Peter imagines someone in Jeanne’s profession eventually reaches a point where nothing is shocking anymore. It must be lonely without friends or family to talk to.

Peter’s nodding his agreement before he realizes it. It is lonely being the only one who knows who he is. Who he was before. I have a girlfriend.

What’s her name? The pen in Jeanne’s hand becomes still, poised over the paper in preparation of cataloguing his relationship status for future reference.

Elsie Baker.

Jeanne smiles. He sees her recognition that she’s found a topic to get Peter talking. He wonders if she’s looking forward to the rest of the session passing by without the pair of them staring at one another like the awkward strangers they are. How did you meet?

We met at a cemetery. Peter looks toward her pad as it fills up with scribbles and wonders how much truth he wants to tell her. He waits for Jeanne to comment on how a cemetery is a strange place to find love, but she’s better than that.

Did someone you know die? Jeanne turns her mouth down in another sympathetic frown.

An acquaintance. I didn’t really know him. My dad did. Peter stops short of telling Jeanne that he’d only known the man as Victim 32 until the day before the memorial service. There’d been a full page spread in the paper. A surveyor measuring plots for a new housing development had stumbled across what little was left of him a decade after his disappearance. His bones rested among a collection of unidentified bodies for years, until somebody working cold-cases had the time and technology to identify him.

That’s how it usually went. Where Oliver’s victims were concerned, law enforcement were rarely the ones to find them. It was usually a hiker who’d lost the trail, a farmer ploughing a fallow field, or campers intent on avoiding developed campgrounds and their fees.

Peter hadn’t been brave enough to go when they laid his remains to rest. A few days later, he’d gone to tell the man’s headstone he was sorry for what his dad had done. He was Elsie’s father. It was kind of funny. We both visited his grave on the same day. It wasn’t even a holiday or anything.

Jeanne smiles with him. It’s interesting how things work out sometimes, isn’t it?

Yeah. Although, sometimes I wonder if meeting me was really the best thing for her. Peter doesn’t enjoy thinking about how he met Elsie. Most of the time he can push it into a dark corner in his mind. That’s probably why their relationship is so easy, though. They both lost their fathers and had to navigate life without them. And neither of them wants to talk about it.

Do you not feel worthy of Elsie? Jeanne’s head tilts curiously. She reaches a hand across the space between them and places it on Peter’s knee. He can feel the warmth of her palm through his jeans. Her fingers rest around his kneecap and squeeze slightly when he tries to shift away from them. Many people feel unworthy of love when they lose their parents as children. That doesn’t make it true.

Peter feels the tears well up behind his eyes. He hates this part of therapy… the part that’s real. He tries to push the tears back, but it’s a losing battle. Suddenly, Jeanne’s hand disappears from his knee. It’s replaced by a small cardboard box. He pulls a stiff tissue out and hides his eyes in it for a second.

When he pulls it away, he can see through Jeanne’s sympathetic facade. She looks so sincere, but deep down, Peter is sure she’s proud of striking a nerve. Her hollow empathy reminds him therapy is nothing more than a manipulation of character. Jeanne’s job is to uncover people’s secrets.

For twenty years, Peter’s job has been to hide from a man famous for burying them.

This would make for a complicated relationship.

Love doesn’t exist. Peter’s throat clenches as he chokes on the words.

Jeanne scribbles another note. How long have you and Elsie been together?

A year.

That’s a long time to be with someone if you don’t believe in love. Jeanne doesn’t look at Peter as she speaks. She’s distracted by writing another note, and it makes Peter uneasy.

He feels an overwhelming urge to demand her full attention. Peter wrings his hands together to keep from grabbing the therapist’s face, forcing her to look at him. It seems to work out well enough just liking her.

Does Elsie know you don’t love her? Jeanne looks back at him. Instantly, Peter feels the tension melt away.

I don’t know, Peter admits.

As Jeanne shifts in her seat, her skirt rises along the edge of the chair again. This time he vows not to stare at her thighs, revealed under the wandering hem. Have you ever told Elsie you love her?

Yes. Peter leans forward, drawn toward her deep brown eyes and waves of ebony hair. Jeanne smells nice. Like plump strawberries floating in a bowl of cream.

You don’t feel bad when you lie about your feelings? Jeanne’s eyelashes flutter as she frowns.

Sometimes. As they inch closer together to discuss the issue intimately, Peter feels like kissing her. The thought of cheating on Elsie makes his stomach clamp down on itself. It drenches his mouth in a bath of acid. He leans back in his seat, pressing into the faux leather until it squelches around him, complaining at his cowardice. He fights to force the horrid burn of stomach acid down.

Peter, are you okay? Jeanne pushes the box of tissues farther up his lap.

He swallows hard. He sucks a few deep breaths, gulping air, trying to stop the muscles constricting his stomach. The urge to vomit passes and he mutters, Yeah. I think so.

What happened? You looked ill just then. Jeanne’s eyes show genuine concern, now. Peter wonders if she’s worried she’ll have to clean her carpet after he leaves.

He searches his mind for an appropriate response. He can’t tell her how beautiful she is. If he does, he won’t be able to come back. I was thinking about what you said about lying to Elsie. She’d feel awful if she found out the truth. Peter nods, relieved when Jeanne copies his movements.

Maybe you care more about Elsie than you realize. Jeanne touches Peter’s knee again. The warmth of her hand makes his skin tingle beneath the thick denim.

Peter takes in another large, nervous gulp of air. He reminds himself he can’t risk losing Jeanne over the admission of an attraction to her and vows he won’t tell Elsie about his new crush. Maybe I do.

Chapter two

Elsie is waiting for Peter when he returns to his apartment. She’s parked in the space out front. Her laptop is open, and she’s surrounded by books in the backseat of her car. Peter taps on the window and music screams at him when she rolls it down.

Hi! Elsie shouts over the wailing radio. She picks up a remote from the pile to her right and shuts the music off before Peter has to ask. Elsie is always using the remote like it’s the hippest accessory, even though she could just lean over and press the buttons on the dashboard like everyone else. I was wondering when you’d show up.

Homework? Peter gestures to the mess.

Morin has us doing research on singular organisms. She snaps the laptop shut and somehow exits the car without spilling books onto the pavement. Did you know there’s a forest in Utah made up of one tree? It shoots roots out and sprouts more tree trunks, but they all stay connected to the same ginormous root system.

Elsie shuts the car door with her hip as she reaches up to peck Peter on the cheek. She turns and begins walking toward Peter’s apartment. Without turning back to the car, she pushes another button on the remote. The windows roll up and the car doors lock themselves. Peter rolls his eyes, bothered by her elitism, and follows her to his front door.

Sounds interesting. How long have you been out here? Peter becomes frustrated as he struggles to get his keys out of his pocket. By the time he wrestles them out and points the correct key at the lock, Elsie is watching him with an impatient glare.

About an hour. I need the bathroom. Where were you?

Peter turns the key in the lock and Elsie pushes by him before the door is fully open. She rushes down the hall without waiting for him to answer. Peter shoves aside the odd guilt he feels for leaving work early. Ignores the lingering electricity of Jeanne touching his knee in their session.

Instead, he focuses on trying to remember if he’s left any weird man paraphernalia out on the counter. Elsie has shut herself in the bathroom before the image of Peter’s nose-hair clipper sitting by the sink pops into his mind. He shrugs his jacket off and is hanging it in the closet when Elsie bursts out of the bathroom.

She explodes into and out of things everywhere she goes. Peter used to joke that she’d never be able to sneak up and murder anyone like that, but she didn’t like it. Regardless, he doesn’t think anyone taught her how to tiptoe as a kid.

Elsie grabs Peter’s face in her hands and looks up his nose. You missed a hair.

Peter feels his skin catch fire with embarrassment when she laughs. He realizes it’s a joke and pretends to laugh with her. Sorry, I didn’t mean to leave that thing out.

Don’t apologize, she chastises. It’s your apartment. You’re allowed to keep whatever bizzaro crap in here you want.

Elsie hugs him, lopsided, reaching behind him with one hand while she still cups his face with the other. She pulls Peter’s coat back off its hanger and races across the apartment with it. "Except this. This thing is awful! What kind of fabric is this, anyway? Tweed? Come on, Peter, could you possibly wear anything more boring?"

The woman at the store said it looked nice. Dignified, I think, was the word she used. Peter sits down on the sofa. He knows Elsie won’t give the coat back. There’s no use in chasing after her.

This woman you speak of… Was she the same woman who sold you the jacket? Elsie raises a suspicious eyebrow. Peter nods, and a tidal wave of Elsie’s laughter crashes against him.

You’re so naïve, Peter. He watches as the brown and gray cloth flutters across the living room. Elsie waves it like a flag as she skips toward the garbage can. She steps on the bin’s silver pedal, drops the coat in the plastic-lined cylinder, then reaches for the day-old pot of coffee on the kitchen counter. She pours its contents over the jacket.

A flash of anger consumes Peter for a second. He bites the inside of his cheek and pushes the feeling aside. He knows there’s no use yelling. Elsie will just throw his outburst back at him tenfold and fly out of the apartment. If that happens, she won’t come around again until she’s sure her transgression has blown over and she’s ready for Peter to apologize.

After his appointment with Jeanne, Peter doesn’t want to be alone. Instead of fighting with Elsie, he leans back against the couch cushion, determined to make light of the situation. At least she didn’t charge me full price.

Thank God, she says with a skittering laugh. She lets her foot slide off the garbage pail’s pedal and the lid snaps shut. Elsie looks over at Peter and flutters her eyelashes. So, did you save enough money on that jacket to take me out to dinner?

Of course, Peter answers.

Good. She smiles. Let’s go somewhere expensive.

Chapter three

Arhythmic knock pounds through the front door. Elsie took off hours ago to meet with one of her study groups. Peter doesn’t bring other people to his apartment. He leaves the TV on but is otherwise silent as he waits for the visitors to announce themselves, or leave. Peter jumps when the rapping resumes.

Just a minute! Peter calls. He searches for something heavy enough to protect himself with in case the person slamming their fist against his door is a robber, or worse, some religious fanatic come to save him.

His gaze settles on the dusty family Bible on the bookshelf near the door. It’s oversized and bound in leather. Whether he needs to knock the offender out or start proclaiming he’s ready to smite the world, it will serve its purpose.

Peter tiptoes towards the door, arms already feeling like lead as he cradles the giant book. He looks through the peephole and finds the funhouse image of a man standing too close. The glass warps his forehead into the shape of a kid’s swimming pool. Arms and legs dangle from his chin like waves of crepe paper on a badly constructed piñata.

Behind him stands a woman wearing a hat and a cream-colored coat. Her frame bows at the waist, comically thin in the peephole. She looks something like an animated harp. Peter moves the Bible to his hip, cradling it in one arm as he opens his door the few inches the fastened chain lock allows.

Henry? The man no longer looks like he belongs in the circus. He looks prepared for a funeral. He leans into the open crack, trying to get a look inside the apartment. Henry Roberts?

Peter freezes. He tries to sort out who could know his real name. The man is older, perhaps in his early sixties, and looks tired in a way that implies he hasn’t slept in years. He’s wearing a black suit that reminds Peter of classic detective films and holds a binder in one hand as he passes the other over his retreating hairline. Peter shakes his head. Sorry. No one by that name here.

Oh. The suited intruder blinks a few times as he stares at Peter.

The woman takes the binder from her friend. She opens the cover and bows her head. A grey felt fedora shields her eyes as she searches the page. She looks over the suit’s shoulder. It’s Peter now, right?

Peter takes a step away from the door, gripping his grandmother’s Bible, preparing to strike if the strangers bust through the flimsy chain. Who are you?

The man smiles and shifts uncomfortably on his feet. He wipes his brow with his sleeve, absorbing a bead of sweat. It’s been a long time. Maybe you don’t remember me. I don’t think we’ve seen one another since you were — what — eighteen? You went by James then. Or was it Jamie? I never can keep track of these things.

No James here either. Sorry. Peter’s heart pounds against his ribcage. The man on his doorstep carries a haunting familiarity that makes his stomach clamp down on his dinner. He moves to close the door. He’s told no one about his past identities. It shouldn’t be possible for this person to know who he is.

Then it clicks.

The suited man and well-dressed woman look like journalists. The vultures track him down from time to time, desperate for details about his childhood. Everyone wants to know about what it’s like to grow up under the same roof as a serial killer.

No reporters! Peter shouts as he pushes the door. The male intruder shoves the thick sole of his shoe in the narrowing crack, preventing it from closing.

I’m not a reporter. It’s me, Henry. Inspector Richard Douglas. He forces the words through the crack, jogging Peter’s memory. I helped on your dad’s—

You helped my dad? Peter cuts him off and takes another look at the flustered stranger. If he imagines the man thirty pounds lighter, with healthier skin and twice as much hair, he can almost make out the familiar face of the F.B.I. agent he’d known as a kid. I called you Dougy.

That’s right! Special Agent Dougy. Man, that got under my skin after a while. He gives a slightly irritated chuckle. You were stubborn back then. Just like your old man.

Peter stares through the crack. Time has not been kind to Dougy. Not only is his waist larger and hair thinner, but the messy tufts he drags his fingers through are gray with thin flecks of brown when it had been the other way around. Peter thinks back on the last time he saw him. He’d worn a biker jacket and beard then, looking like some Hollywood rendition of an undercover cop. Now, he’s clean shaven and wears a suit that looks too big for him. Peter wonders whether he’s losing weight, or if he’s in the habit of buying clothes one size too large in case his waistline expands. I’m nothing like my father.

Right. I didn’t mean to imply you have the same hobbies, or anything like that. It’s just on the way over I was telling my partner you both knew how to push my buttons. Inspector Douglas gestures at the woman, who nods once.

You never had a partner before, Peter says. He looks warily at the woman. While Dougy’s suit hangs and bunches on his frame in awkward places, everything she wears looks tailor made.

Inspector Douglas stands a little straighter. His shoulders broaden and he takes a bullish stance. Well, I’m not an agent anymore. I’m an inspector. That’s what they do to you when they see you’re getting close to cashing in your pension. Special Agent Jones will take over for me when I retire.

Which should have happened six months ago, Special Agent Jones comments in a tone that says this isn’t the first time she’s reminded him.

The work’s not over ‘till it’s over. Inspector Douglas rolls his eyes dramatically before they return to rest on Peter. Will you let us in?

Peter slides the chain off and opens the door wide so his unwanted visitors can enter. They stop in the middle of the living room and Inspector Douglas turns in a slow circle while he takes it all in. Wow, Henry. You’ve got a nice place.

Thanks. But please, call me Peter. He closes the door but leaves it unlocked in case anyone needs to make a hasty exit. He moves to set the Bible down on the coffee table, keeping it within arm’s reach. What are you doing here?

Mind if I sit? Dougy doesn’t wait for an answer. He takes the folder from his partner and sits square in the middle of the couch. He drops the binder on the coffee table, covering the Bible. He leans into the cushions, arms draped across the back of the sofa, and crosses his legs.

Special Agent Jones moves toward the hallway. You here alone?

Yeah, Peter answers nervously. Why?

I need to powder my nose. She points toward the back of the apartment. Bathroom?

Peter nods. He still hasn’t put away his nose hair clippers and sucks in a panicked breath of air as she pushes the restroom door open.

Say, Henry. Do you mind if I have a glass of water? It’s been a long day. Inspector Douglas lifts his bushy eyebrows and tilts his head toward the kitchen.

The other agent still hasn’t entered the bathroom. She stands in the hallway, watching him with an intense stare that sends a shiver down his spine. To avoid her gaze, he moves into the next room to retrieve a glass for Dougy. The inspector talks as soon as the faucet turns on, and Peter can’t make out any of what he says. Peter yells around the corner to stop Dougy’s chatter. Just one second…

When he returns to the living room, Peter finds Dougy in the same position as before. Though it doesn’t look like he’s moved a muscle, the binder is open, and papers are arranged in neat piles across the coffee table. Peter hands him the glass of water, checking the dim hallway for signs of the inspector’s partner. The bathroom door is closed.

Peter returns his gaze to Dougy without looking at the photos. He’s seen the suspected victims dozens of times over the years. A menagerie of family portraits and studio headshots have come and gone on the news and in the papers for two decades. Peter even watched a documentary last year about The Godless Killer. The director had run trails of red string from the photos to maps, to newspaper clippings, and back again like some conspiracy theorist.

I spoke to Oliver. Inspector Douglas takes a sip of water, then sets the glass on a stack of papers. He picks up a photo and offers it to Peter, as if he hasn’t memorized the woman’s auburn hair and broody eyes in the years they’ve been trying to pin his father for her disappearance.

Peter hears water running in the bathroom. He wonders how long it will take Special Agent Jones to catalog his collection of antidepressants and anti-anxiety pills. He concentrates on looking out the window as a neighbor passes by without waving. I thought he was still giving everyone the silent treatment.

Inspector Douglas lets out a low chuckle. He still proffers the photo. He had been. But suddenly, last week, he decided he wanted to have a conversation. You know how he is. When he wants something, it’s hard to say no.

Harder for some than others. Peter rubs a clammy hand across the back of his sweating neck.

Yeah, I guess. The inspector struggles up from the couch, then takes a few steps to close the gap between them. He pushes the photograph into his line of sight, forcing Peter to look at the portrait. The woman’s straight teeth and round cheeks make her look young and alive, despite the dark rings of depression encircling her eyes. It’s a graduation photo. Peter has always wondered why she doesn’t look more excited. Maybe, somehow, she knew her time was up.

He wants to talk about Carol. Show us where she is.

Special Agent Jones emerges from the bathroom. She moves silently across the apartment, boxing Peter in so he can’t run away from the burning intensity of Carol’s pensive stare. He can’t stand the discomfort of Carol looking up at him from the glossy paper. Pleading with him to do something. His eyes move to study the top right corner of the picture. It’s a faded grey, the color of a background drenched with the flash of a thousand budget graduation photos.

Peter clears the bubble of worry from his throat. So what?

Inspector Douglas shifts his stance. There’s a tension in him, like a guitar string wound too tight, ready to snap if it’s strummed the wrong way. Peter thinks maybe Dougy feels her haunting the room, too.

Special Agent Jones leans into Peter, looking over his shoulder at the photograph. Her breath is soft, tickling his skin. Her closeness causes the hairs on his neck to stand on end. He says he’ll only talk to you.

The words land on him like a ton of bricks.

Chapter four

H enry! Ollie leans forward as if to stand to greet his son, but the chain attached to his wrists catches on the chair, stopping him halfway.

Hi Dad. Peter doesn’t reach out to shake hands, or lean close for a hug. Instead, he stays out of arm’s reach and carefully sits down opposite his father. Ollie looks exactly the same as Peter remembers from childhood. Being locked up seems to have somehow preserved him. He smiles the same proud smile that he used to give when Peter got an A on his report card. Peter mirrors his expression, a warm feeling spreading through him as he’s taken back. When he rests his hands on the cold steel table between them, he’s reminded of where they are.

It’s good to see you. You’re all grown up. There’s a pleased gleam in Ollie’s eye, and he moves to touch Peter’s hand.

Peter might have appreciated the gesture before his childhood dissolved. He doesn’t bother hiding the cringe overtaking his features. He’s spent a lifetime trying to forget they’re related. The thought of Ollie’s skin touching his own makes him ill. He takes a deep breath, forcing the nausea and stinging sensation behind his eyes to subside. Yup. I’m thirty-two now.

Where does time go? Ollie draws his hand back and raises his eyebrows in question, as if the way time moves truly escapes his understanding.

Seeing his father clad in orange, wrists and ankles chained together at Peter’s request, is an even more awkward family reunion than Peter imagined it could be. He swivels his head, reminding himself they aren’t alone.

All around them, people in orange jumpsuits visit with family and friends wearing casual street clothes. It reminds him of a mall’s food court. Family meetings among a crowd of distracted people. Of course, no sporks in this building, and it smells more like bleach than Lo Mein noodles. The brief comparison dissolves.

Instead of forcing himself to reminisce with his absentee father, Peter gets to the point. Dougy told me you want to talk.

Ollie laughs. The sound trickles between the cracks of Peter’s anxiety, filling them with the warm glow of his father’s happiness. You still call him that? He hates it, you know.

I didn’t ask him to show up at my front door, Peter answers. He allows his cheek to pull at a smile. I’ll call him whatever I want.

Ollie nods, pleased with his son’s defiance. I’m glad you came. It truly is a blessing to see you.

Peter allows a layer of tension to fade away. He won’t admit it to anyone, least of all his father, but it’s nice to see him, too.

I’ve decided it’s time to let Carol go. Ollie’s face drops as if he’s a farmer putting down his favorite dog. I’ve been getting letters from her daughter. She wants her new baby to have a place to visit her grandma. I think that’s a good enough reason to give her up.

This time, Peter’s the one to reach forward. A knot of emotion catches in his throat. He can’t imagine what it would be like to not have a graveyard to visit. The gaping wound he tended in the years after his mother’s death may never have gone numb if he hadn’t been able to take a pilgrimage to her headstone whenever he needed to see her. He touches Ollie gently, and the elder man responds by pulling Peter’s hand into his fierce grip. I’m glad you’re ready for this one, Dad. Maybe after Carol we can find a few more.

Maybe. Ollie’s eyes glaze over and Peter knows he means probably not.

So, now that I’m here, what’s next? Will they give us some paper and a pen so you can draw me a map?

Ollie cracks a sly smile. No, I don’t think I can picture it well enough right now. It might take a bit of conversation to jog my memory.

Peter revisits the familiar feeling of disappointed resignation. He should have known it wouldn't be that easy. Okay, Dad. What do you want to talk about?

You, mostly. Ollie beams. Tell me about yourself.

If Ollie won’t give up information, Peter doesn’t know how long the guards will let them visit. To save time, he dives right in. Peter tells his father briefly about Elsie, his apartment high in the hills of Northwest Portland, and his job at Ronix.

Ollie seems interested in Peter’s work. They talk a while about program errors and office politics.

Your boss sounds like a real dick, Ollie says. There’s nothing for Peter to do but agree. Ollie leans across the table and lowers his voice. Want me to send someone to take care of him? I just started this Bible study group with a couple guys who can get things done outside.

Peter’s heart stops beating, and his breath turns to ice in his chest. He stares at his father, fingers of terror encroaching as he worries he’s accidentally sentenced his manager to death.

Ollie bursts into laughter. Only kidding, Son. Only kidding!

Peter looks around the room. He hopes no one overheard his father. How will he explain away a joke like that if they stop him on his way out? I’ve got to get going, I need you to tell me where Carol is. Otherwise, that’s it. I won’t come back. Peter glances up as a family across the room says their goodbyes.

Forests in the Northwest are beautiful in the fall, don’t you think? Ollie closes his eyes in a moment of silent nostalgia. He breathes in deep as if pretending to smell the wet leaves. But Peter knows the monster he is. He thinks he isn’t daydreaming of crisp fall days at all. It’s possible he’s imagining the mingling smells of Carol’s decomposing body and the freshness of the newborn baby she left behind.

Peter squeezes his eyes shut, too. His thumb twitches on the table. He reminds himself the baby was fine. Carol left the infant at her aunt’s house and never returned to pick her up. That’s how they knew she’d gone missing. Now, the baby’s the one writing to his father. A grown woman pleading for her mother’s remains. He forces his eyes open, commands his lungs to breathe, and works his jaw loose so he can speak. You hid Carol in the woods?

Ollie only opens one eye, but the disapproving glance hits its mark. I never said that, Hen. I was just making a casual observation.

Right, Peter nods. We’re done here, then.

Ollie’s face falls, age lines deepening. He mutters that he understands. An officer is beside them before Peter stands up and he knows for certain that the conversation wasn’t private. Chatter between the other inmates and their families stops when a second officer joins Ollie to guide him in an iron-clad shuffle across the room. The first officer puts his hand on the door and looks up at a nearby camera. A slight click sounds from inside the frame, and the solid steel door swings open. The guards escort Ollie through the opening, returning him to the cell block.

Peter finds Dougy and Special Agent Jones waiting in the hallway. Dougy pats Peter on the back. Outstanding work, Henry. Excellent.

It’s Peter. He brushes the inspector’s hand off his shoulder and heads toward the exit.

Special Agent Jones calls after him. Did he tell you anything?

He says he started a prison Bible study and offered to kill my boss.

What about Carol? Inspector Douglas asks.

Peter stops. He makes a quarter turn, looking behind him at the inspector and his partner. I think she’s in the woods.

Chapter five

The clock in Jeanne’s office ticks louder than any other timepiece Peter’s ever heard. He decides if he’s still seeing her during the holidays, he’ll buy her one that’s digital. Maybe one that dings quietly at the top of the hour, but is otherwise silent.

She’s wearing slacks. Peter hopes his attention last week hasn’t turned her off skirts. They suit her.

So, what’s happened since I saw you last? Jeanne braids her fingers around her pen and rests it on her chest.

My dad contacted me. Peter’s thumb spasms.

Jeanne attempts to maintain a portrait of professionalism, but Peter can see the slight way she perks up. A normal client wouldn’t notice how the arch of her eyebrows twitch, or the way her mouth purses in anticipation. But Peter does.

She leans over her pad of paper, flipping through the pages to check her notes. Didn’t you say he’s been in jail for an extended period?

He’s incarcerated, yes. Peter presses his hand against his leg, attempting to still the movement of his nervous tic.

How did he contact you? Jeanne bats her eyes and Peter’s heart flutters as he realizes she’s hanging on his every word.

He wrote me a letter, he lies.

Did you bring it with you? Jeanne inches closer. Peter assumes she’s expecting him to hand over a letter dripping with emotional trauma. Peter hates to disappoint, but he hadn’t thought to write one up before his appointment.

No. But I can tell you what it says, Peter offers.

The therapist masks any letdown with a practiced smile. She leans back in her chair. Sure, if you feel comfortable sharing.

He says he misses me, and he wants to see me. Peter keeps going as Jeanne scribbles on her pad. He’s enjoying feeding the excitement he suspects she feels. He says he knows he was wrong. He hopes I’ll forgive him so we can be a family again.

Peter hesitates. An image of his father in an orange jumpsuit flashes through his mind. He clears his throat and adds, You know, when he gets out.

Jeanne glances up. Will he be released soon?

Oh, yes, Peter enthuses. He should go home in the next few weeks, I think.

How did the letter make you feel? Jeanne’s eyes dance from across the room.

I don’t know. Peter sifts through his treasure trove of hidden emotions. On the one hand, I haven’t had a dad in my life since I was a kid, so I guess having him pay attention to me feels nice. On the other hand, I don’t really want to get involved in his shit.

Jeanne nods. Peter is sure she understands exactly what he’s saying. Trying to fix a jailbird parent is a tough proposition for any man. Especially a dad like Oliver Roberts. Peter smiles at her. It’s only their second session, but he enjoys their conversation. He wishes they could continue it outside her office. He imagines talking with her over dinner. He’d have the chicken-fried steak. She’d enjoy a sensible salad. The lights dim around them until he can almost see the candlelight flicker off her cheeks.

What does Elsie think you should do?

Peter’s thrust back to the present moment. He admonishes himself for fantasizing about red wine shimmering on Jeanne’s lips. I haven’t told her.

Jeanne writes something and underlines it. Twice. Peter wants to know what she wrote, but he’s sure she’ll never show him. It probably says something akin to doesn’t trust girlfriend. He cringes because if that’s what she wrote, she’s right.

We don’t talk about my dad, Peter sputters.

Are you afraid it’ll stir up uncomfortable memories because your fathers knew each other? Jeanne’s chin tilts, her expression filled with curiosity.

Peter nods so deep, his chin touches the collar of his button-down. To say Peter’s father might wound Elsie is an understatement. She doesn’t know much about my dad, other than that he’s gone away.

Jeanne looks surprised. Oh? Doesn’t she know your fathers were friends?

No. I don’t think it would be good for her to find out how they knew each other. Peter’s leg bounces twice before his anxiety drives him from his chair. He looks at the wall clock. He’s relieved it announces it’s five minutes to noon. Damn. Looks like our time is about up, Jeanne.

The therapist follows Peter’s gaze and frowns. He can tell she feels things were just getting good. I suppose it is. Well, please stop at the front desk on your way out to book for next week. I look forward to continuing our conversation.

They lock eyes. When Jeanne smiles, Peter decides he was wrong about not believing in love.

Chapter six

I stopped by your office today. Elsie speaks around a mouth full of noodles. She sits cross-legged on the floor, hunched over the coffee table for what she calls an authentic Asiatic dining experience.

What for? Peter doesn’t hide the surprise in his voice. In the last year, Elsie has visited him at work exactly once. She’d insisted on a tour of his office when they first started dating. The sea of cubicles had disappointed her.

I wanted to surprise you with lunch, Elsie says with a grimace.

I must have just missed you, Peter says from where he sits at the dining room table. This disjointed eating arrangement has become their norm. Peter tries to convince her by adding, I went out for lunch today.

You don’t eat lunch, Peter. Elsie’s tone is flat, but the words still bite at his confidence.

I had an appointment, okay? Peter hates the way she dances around things. Elsie never just comes out and says what she wants. Instead, she interrogates him, tells him everything she knows, and tries to catch him in a lie. Besides, if you know I don’t eat lunch, why would you show up like that?

Elsie looks him up and down, then skirts his question with her own. What kind of appointment? Your ratty mop proves you didn’t get a haircut, and I know you’re not sick. I called your doctor. Don’t pretend to cough or feign a fever.

I don’t ‘feign’ things, Elsie. The last time I said I had a fever, the thermometer read one hundred and two degrees. You have no right to call my doctor, anyway. What are you, my mother? Peter picks up his half-finished dinner and carries it to the kitchen. It’s a relief to be behind the thin wall, out of sight. As angry as he is with her, he can’t stand her accusing stare. He stands at the sink and listens for a moment, waiting for her to enter the kitchen behind him, looking for a fight. Instead, her chopsticks clink against the side of her bowl and Peter knows she’s not willing to make the effort.

He takes his time scraping his bowl clean with a plastic fork before tossing the takeaway flatware in the garbage. He slowly rinses the bowl. If he takes long enough, maybe she’ll realize he doesn’t want to talk about it. Hell, if he can stretch the act of rinsing this one dish out for half an hour, maybe she’ll finish her food and leave so he can avoid the discomfort of their conversation altogether.

He’d rather deal with the annoyance of her chopsticks spreading sticky plum sauce across the coffee table than engage in another fight she’ll probably win.

Peter realizes the water is still running and looks at the now spotless dish. He knows he’s being ridiculous. He places his bowl in the dishwasher and musters the strength to go back to the living room. When he rounds the corner, she’s typing away at her laptop and doesn’t even notice him. Peter moves over to her, stooping to rub her shoulders.

Jesus! Elsie shrieks and jumps under Peter’s touch. She slaps the laptop lid closed and spins around on her crisscrossed legs to face him. How many times do I have to tell you not to sneak up on me like that? Fuck, Peter, clear your throat when you’re approaching or something.

Sorry. Peter shuffles closer to the couch so the coffee table stands between them. He stares at her, unsure of what to do to make her feel more at ease. She glares at him. Peter sinks into the sofa. The way she looks at him makes him wish he could disappear.

It’s fine. She spits the sentence with venom. Then, as if she realizes what a bitch she’s being, she smooths her hair and smiles. You startled me, is all. You’re just so quiet, you know?

Maybe I should tie bells to my socks. Peter smiles with uncertainty at his own joke. She doesn’t get it. He points at his feet and wiggles his toes. For the noise.

You’re so weird. Elsie rolls her eyes before she smiles at him awkwardly one more time.

Even though they’ve been together more than a year, she’s still a mystery to him. There are some days, he thinks he doesn’t know her at all. And rarely correctly guesses what she thinks about anything. He’s not sure he even knows what she likes, aside from high end restaurants. He frowns and wonders aloud, Do you love me?

Elsie’s smile fades and her eyebrows squish together. What?

I’ve been wondering if you love me. Peter does his best to not look like an abandoned puppy, but judging from the pout of Elsie’s lips, he’s failing.

Honey, there’s lots to love about you. You’re kind, have an excellent job, and always bring me Phó noodles when I ask for them. Elsie’s expression is placating at best.

"You love me because I