Free Serial Killers Uncut by Blake Crouch, Jack Kilborn, J. A. Konrath Page B

of trying to find out who killed my brother.

    Amanda and I were packing up my apartment, getting ready to move in together at a new rental farther downtown. This old place held a lot of memories, but like Jack, perhaps it was time to start over. Come clean. At some point, even the good memories are overshadowed by the bad ones, and a fresh perspective can help you hang on to the ones you want to keep and forget the ones you don't.

    But as I told Amanda, it was going to be a long night, and memories didn't wash away that quickly.

    Once the final box was packed, and sealed with enough duct tape to strap it to a cruise missile, we hopped in a cab and followed the driver down to our new place on 87th Street. It was a nice neighborhood, populated by young families and young professionals which meant plenty of parks and playgrounds, and a whole lot of dive bars. Amanda and I were somewhere in the middle of those two worlds: not ready to face the mortgage and two-point-five children yet, and not quite in the mood to wear baseball caps while spilling beer over ourselves because our team scored a touchdown. For us, the mating ritual seemed over. We preferred quiet conversation to boisterous applause. A cold bottle of beer in front of one television beat a watered-down draft in front of twelve.

    God, I sounded old.

    We watched warily out the window as the moving van seemed to steer directly into every pothole on the street. I cringed every time the wheels jumped, and I waited for the moment when the axle would just snap in half and all of my oh-so-valuable possessions would come flying out the back like stuffing from a slit couch.

    When the van finally came to a stop, I jumped out of the cab and met the movers at the back of their van. When the driver, a man with massive biceps and an even bigger gut, wearing a back brace that could have been used in those World's Strongest Man competitions, went to pick up my stuff, I leaned in to help. Then I felt Amanda's hand on my arm.

    What are you doing? she asked.

    I'm going to help carry stuff, I said. It's my junk, after all. .

    Yeah, but you paid them to carry it. It's their job. .

    I know, I said. I'm just not used to someone else doing the heavy lifting. .

    Would you feel better if I did it? Amanda said, her hand on her hip.

    Actually, I replied, smiling, putting my arm around her, I would. .

    She stood on tiptoe and gave me a small peck on the cheek. I'm not sure how wide I was smiling before, but now I was positively beaming.

    It took just under an hour for the movers to transport all the boxes and secondhand furniture up to our second-story walkup. In New York, real estate prices were often dictated by how high a floor your apartment was on. A general rule of thumb: the higher the floor, the more costly the apartment. I figured in a walkup, the reverse applied. I'd rather pay more to live on a lower floor. Lugging groceries up five flights would be a bitch; two was just fine.

    Once the movers were done and satisfied with their tip, Amanda and I walked into our new place. Amanda's few things were already there. None of the boxes was unpacked, none of the furniture was where it was supposed to go. The bed frame was set up, but the mattress was on its side against the foyer wall. We hefted it up, brought it into the bedroom and left it fall onto the plywood with a thunk.

    I sat down on the edge of the bed and took a deep breath. Looked around. Amanda sat next to me.

    Everything okay? she said.

    I looked over at her. Smiled.

    She was a true beauty in every sense of the word. That auburn hair that fell around her shoulders like a sunset, the small mole on her collarbone that I loved to kiss. When we met, I felt like the luckiest man on earth simply because she'd saved my life. Now, I felt like the luckiest man on earth because she'd saved my soul.

    Thinking about Jack? she said. I didn't know he was still alive, let alone in our neighborhood. The least he could have done