The Serial Killer's Wife by Blake Crouch, Robert Swartwood

you think I’m not open to new things, can I?”  
    Now, less than six months later, Todd forced a smile at her as he pulled two cheese steaks from the bag. Harlan set the pizzas down next to the container on the table, then turned to her.  
    “Where is Mr. Riley?”  
    “Back in his office, I think. You know him—all business, all the time.”  
    Harlan said, “Well then, I will leave you alone to enjoy your meal,” and left without another word.  
    When the door closed, Todd said, “That guy weirds me out.”  
    “Who—Harlan? He’s harmless.”  
    “I don’t know. Something tells me he could probably kill me with his pinkie.”  
    Elizabeth came away from the window, met him at the table. “Not with his pinkie. His index finger, though ...” She forced a smile that quickly faded. “I’m sorry.”  
    “For what?”  
    “All of this. Getting you into this mess.”  
    “It’s my fault. I should have just gone home and watched SportsCenter .” He forced a smile of his own. “I hate to admit it, but I’m starving.”  
    They opened the food. Two large pizzas, one with pepperoni, one with extra cheese, two cheese steaks, and the onion rings.  
    Elizabeth took a bite of an onion ring, widened her eyes. “Hot,” she said. Then, “You want one?”  
    “No thanks.”  
    “Oh, come on.”  
    “Hey, I tried it that one time, didn’t I?”  
    “Yes, because I guilted you into it.”  
    “Well, you’re a woman. Guilting men into doing stuff they don’t want to do is what you’re good at.”  
    A slight grin played on his face, and Elizabeth found herself grinning, too. It felt good to produce a smile that wasn’t forced, to find some joy, no matter how small, in this situation. But then, just as quickly, their grins faded when they remembered where they were and why they were here and where they needed to go next.  
    Todd said, “So.”  
    “So.”  
    He looked around the room again. “You, what, lived here once?”  
    “For a while, yes.”  
    “What did you do? I mean, as a job.”  
    “I tended the bar.”  
    “Seriously? Like mixing drinks and stuff?”  
    She nodded.  
    “Huh,” Todd said. “I never would have pictured that.”  
    Elizabeth didn’t say anything, letting the silence remind him there was a lot he would probably have a hard time picture her doing.  
    Todd turned to the table, grabbed a slice, held it for a moment before setting it back down.  
    “So this guy, Donovan Riley, he’s what—a drug dealer or something?”  
    “Not quite. He doesn’t deal drugs. In fact, he detests drugs.”  
    “But he’s, like, connected somehow, right?”  
    “Honestly, it’s best if you don’t even think about it.”  
    Not thinking about it, though, was something Todd couldn’t do. She knew that, just as she couldn’t stop thinking about this place herself. How she had lived here and worked here and then, with thoughts of killing her son swarming in her head, had begun cutting herself here. She thought she could even feel the scars now, almost tingling, as if they too sensed this place was where they had been born.  
    Todd turned away, picked up his slice again.  
    Elizabeth watched him, thinking about her scars and why she hadn’t let her intimacy with Todd continue more than it had. They had kissed, yes, had even made out several times, but every time Todd tried taking it to the next level, she always pushed him away. She couldn’t explain why—telling him about the scars would then prompt even more questions, like where they had come from and what brought them on—and she was certain he wasn’t going to put up with it much longer. But, surprisingly, he had remained patient with her, and that made her care for him even more.  
    She opened her mouth, wanting to tell Todd something (what, she wasn’t even sure), when the door opened.
    “Look at you two,” Van said as he approached them, carrying two books, “you couldn’t even wait