After exiting the car, I immediately crouched down when I saw Cris was holding the leash of what I assumed was their new foster, a small panting dog that looked like a cross between a rat terrier and a cocker spaniel. His curly white fur brushed against my cheeks as he licked my face, his puppy breath hot against my skin.

‘Who’s this?’ I asked, smiling and laughing.

‘His name is Harley. We just went for a run. He’s got a lot of energy to burn so he’s been joining me. He was rescued from a breeder. Loves people, hates other dogs. He wasn’t doing well in the shelter so we volunteered to take him until he finds his forever home. If you know of anyone …’

I scratched Harley behind the ears and he pushed his head into my hand. ‘I wish I could take him but our apartment building only allows cats. I’ll keep my ears open though, our neighborhood is very dog friendly.’

I rose to a standing position and looked at Cris. He looked uncomfortable and I realized this was the first time we had been alone together. He quickly said, ‘Rosie’s made a casserole, are you hungry?’

‘That sounds great, I could eat.’

We started walking but Cris veered away from the front door. ‘Let’s go through the garage. I need to close it behind me.’

I followed Cris, nerves mounting at being in a confined space with him, even if only for a moment. I knew Rosie was just inside but maybe something like that wouldn’t matter to a serial killer, especially if she was aware of his actions. Looking around, I took in our surroundings, but was careful to keep Cris in my line of sight at all times. The right side of the garage was taken up by a car covered with a beige canvas cover. I pulled the corner of the cover up slightly and trailed my fingers under the cover along the slick green surface, my fingers coming up clean. The car had clearly been well taken care of. I was about to ask Cris about it when I spotted his tools organized on hooks along the wall opposite the car. Everything was in its proper place. Shelving under the tools carried rows of small plastic containers with labels like ‘1/2” washers’ and ‘3/4” bolts.’ Next to the door that presumably led to the house were stacks and stacks of clear plastic bins carefully marked describing what was inside. I read ‘PILLOWS’, ‘ORNAMENTS’, and ‘KITCHEN’ among them. A workbench ran down the side of the garage and on top of it sat a microwave with the back panel opened up and wires sticking out everywhere.

‘What’s going on here?’ I asked as I walked over to the workbench, trying to keep things casual and not give away the growing uncertainty I was feeling toward him.