Love in the Time of Serial Killers by Alicia Thompson EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available For Free Download
- Authors: Alicia Thompson
- Language: English
- Genre: Contemporary Women Fiction
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
OBVIOUSLY A TWO-HUNDRED-POUND Victorian writing desk wasn’t made to
be moved all by yourself. But it also hadn’t come with those
incomprehensible IKEA instructions showing a blocky illustrated guy
getting help from a buddy, so. There wasn’t anything saying not to try it.
I took a step back, assessing the desk where it was strapped to the roof
of my car. It was the only piece of furniture I’d brought with me, and it was
a monstrosity. My old landlord in North Carolina had helped me load it
onto my car in the first place, and it had been the reason I’d made the drive
to Florida in one straight shot, stopping only briefly at rest areas and a Taco
Bell in Starke.
If I undid the straps, it was possible the desk would slide right off the
car. I had an image of trying to catch it and ending up flattened into a
pancake like a cartoon character under a piano. But I could brace it against
my body, maybe, ease it to the ground. Then I could penguin-walk it up the
driveway to the house.
I turned to survey my dad’s old house, which had been sitting empty for
the last six months, since he’d died back in January. I guessed it was my
and my little brother’s house now, technically. But this house hadn’t felt
like mine since the day my mother and I had moved out when I was
thirteen, maybe not since before then.
My brother, Conner, could still be awake, even though my phone screen
showed that it was already two in the morning. He’d always been a big
gamer, and would stay up all hours trying a level one more time or trying to
beat the last boss. But that had been before he and Shani had moved in
together, before he’d gotten his first postcollege job at a call center. And
anyway, I wasn’t going to text him to come help me with something as
stupid as a desk.
Conner and I weren’t that close. We’d barely grown up together, for one
thing—when our parents divorced, he’d chosen to stay with our dad, while
I’d gone with our mom. He was also seven years younger, twenty-three to
my thirty, although that fact alone couldn’t fully explain his optimistic
exuberance in contrast to my jaded cynicism. We’d spent time together
during holidays and select weekends, of course, but still when I thought of
him I mostly remembered the way he would eat ketchup by the bowlful
when he was six years old.
I typed how to move heavy furniture by yourself into a search on my
phone, and scrolled through the results. Ads for moving companies, an
article about how to use moving straps and dollies and other equipment I
didn’t have, another couple of articles that basically boiled down to don’t.
“Need a hand?” a voice came from behind me, and I jumped and gave a
little scream. My phone flew out of my hand and hit the pavement with a
sickening crack.
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