I didn’t want to find out he was a balding man in his forties who lived in his mom’s basement.

Not to judge those guys. They were great people, I was sure, but they just weren’t my kind of people.

I didn’t like basements. Ever since my brother had played a Halloween prank on me when I was nine, I’d avoided them at all costs.

I stared at my phone.

I couldn’t open it and read it. That was insane. I needed to delete the entire conversation and block his number.

How did I know it was an accident? Had he somehow gotten my number and deliberately sent me a photograph of his genitals?

Oh, my God.

What if he had?

Was he stalking me?

What was I thinking, having a full-blown conversation with him earlier?

Sure, he’d been nice. Charming. Lovely. Funny. But you know what? So were serial killers.

It’s how they lured you in.

My fire alarm beeped, sending my thought train crashing into the station. I glared at it, but it didn’t stop. Hauling a chair over beneath it, I climbed up and hit the button to make it be quiet.

It didn’t work.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Fucking.

Beep.

Oh, my God. It was the goddamn batteries. The guy who’d been here a few weeks ago checking them all said I’d need to replace them within weeks and I’d totally forgotten.

It was still beeping.

I had no choice. I had to take the batteries out. I’d replace them tomorrow after work—the stores would all be shut now, and there was no way I had any in the apartment.

I supposed I could ask my neighbor… But as a rule, I tried not to ask Arthur Jennings anything. A simple request for a battery would turn into a half-hour story about them.

Once, I’d asked if he had any milk since mine had gone sour after a weekend trip with the girls. He’d launched into three stories about various grocery trips, and by the time I’d finally gotten the mug full of milk back to my apartment, my coffee was cold, and I had to get to work.

That was the day I’d ordered a small coffee machine for the back room at the store. Now, I never had to be without my coffee.

The alarm was now silent, but it felt as though my phone was screaming at me. I knew the message was there, but…

Jesus, this was ridiculous. I was ridiculous. That was what happened when Aunt Bethel showed up unannounced—her ridiculousness rubbed off on me.

I took one last gulp of wine, and with a prayer up to whoever controlled this stuff in the sky, grabbed my phone and hoped I really wasn’t communicating with a serial killer.

DICK GUY: Can I ask you something?

ME: Can I ask you something first?

DICK GUY: Sure.

ME: Are you a serial killer luring me in with an ‘accidental’ dick pic so we’ll become friends and meet for a drink where you can later strangle me with a shoelace and dump me in a river?