Page 11 of Things We Fake
“So, what else do you do in your free time, other than jogging and going to the gym?”
“I like art.”
I perked up. “Really?” We might have something in common after all. “What kind?”
“All sorts, really, but I’m more into the unconventional and unusual things.”
I was getting an uneasy feeling again. “Coins? Books? Vintage wine labels?” I offered hopefully.
“Murderabilia, mostly.”
I choked. Actually, choked. I had to turn my head and do that awkward cough-laugh-snort combo to avoid spraying hot chocolate across the table. “I’m sorry—what did you say?”
“Murderabilia,” he repeated, as if we were discussing antique teacups. “You know, items connected to famous crimes. Letters from serial killers, court documents, crime scene artifacts. It’s a fascinating field.”
I blinked.
He leaned in slightly, all enthusiasm. “My most prized possession is a spoon Ted Bundy allegedly used in prison. Still has his initials scratched on the handle—T.B. And no, I didn’t carve them myself. I had it authenticated.”
“Oh. Of course,” I said faintly, because what else does one say when one’s date casually name-drops Ted Bundy’s prison spoon like it’s a souvenir from Epcot?
He wasn’t finished. “I’ve also got a lock of Charles Manson’s hair. Came with a certificate of authenticity and a photo of the guy who cut it.”
Okay, my weirdo-meter was beeping loudly enough to stop a train. “That’s… very niche.”
“It’s an investment, too,” he added earnestly. “These items appreciate like crazy. Plus, you’re preserving history. It's no different than collecting Civil War memorabilia. Just more contemporary.”
I smiled weakly and nodded, while my brain ran through every true crime documentary I’d ever watched, trying to remember if any of the guys started out withI swear I just really admire Ed Gein’s craftsmanship.
Sam went on. “People judge, but isn’t it more twisted to pretend evil doesn’t exist? That’s the better question, if you ask me.”
Actually, the question was how badly I was going to maim Ange for setting me up with this quack. I didn’t care if she didn’t know about his murder spoons collection and special foods requests. This guy and I were not a match made in Heaven.
Chapter Five
Sue
“That was, officially, the worst date of my life,” I shouted into my phone.
Heads turned to stare at me as I walked the last couple of blocks to my building, huffing furiously.
“Come on, it couldn’t have been that—”
“The worst, Ange! That includes all my dates with The Truffle Prince, prom night, and every other day in my life.”
Ange tried to placate me. “Is he really that bad?”
“He collects serial killer stuff! And he gave me a ten minute lecture about why salt is bad for me, and calculated the calories in my meal while I was just trying to eat my damn burger.”
She began to laugh. “Okay, I’m sorry. I had no idea he was like that, honestly.”
“This is the last time I go on a date with any of the guys you or the girls set me up with. The last time I go on a blind date, period. I’d rather stay single forever, open a cat café, and live happily ever after.”
“How do you think Mama Morelli would feel about that?”
A cold shiver ran down my spine. I told myself it was because it was freezing outside.
“I don’t care,” I bluffed. “She’ll have to live with it.”
