Page 27 of Matchmaking for Psychopaths

The whole time that my parents were killing people, I continued to go to school.

I learned long division, and how to spell words like “neighbor” and “disappear.” I was strange, but strange in an ordinary way.

I kept my hair longer than that of the other girls, dressed more formally, because my mom liked that type of clothing.

My classmates were nice enough, and my teachers lauded my intelligence.

No one knew that things at home had escalated, and I didn’t tell anyone, because even at the age of nine, I understood the value of keeping secrets.

If the other children knew about the monster in my house, they would ridicule me for it.

If the monster—my parents—knew I’d told, it might turn its murderous tendencies in my direction.

I liked school. It was pleasurable to learn things, to prove to others just how smart I was.

There was always food in the cafeteria, and even when my classmates were mean, they were mean in a predictable manner.

Getting on the school bus was like entering a portal to a world where things were normal.

I lived two different lives—one in the night, during which I heard the sounds of people dying, and the other in the classroom, where my teacher told me what a good reader I was.

Entering the Better Love building now evoked a similar feeling of duality.

I put on professional clothing like a costume.

In the office, I was the same Lexie I’d been a couple of weeks prior, engaged and free of dismembered organs.

No one knew that my fiancé was missing, or that he’d left me for my best friend a week before he’d gone, and I wasn’t about to tell them.

I knew how quickly safe spaces could sour when people found out the truth.

After closing the door on Molly, I’d spent the night frantically looking for evidence of Noah’s well-being.

I scoured his social media pages, as though I hadn’t been checking them multiple times a day since he’d ended things.

He’d posted nothing new, and when I sent him a message— Just checking in.

Molly said that the two of you had a fight, are you okay?

—it remained on sent rather than shifting to read .

I did a Google search for his name, and found his headshot in the list of medical residents at the hospital where he worked.

There were no news articles, or alarms raised about his absence.

Still, a sense of foreboding settled into my bones.

I ate my takeout, a gyro and fries, and went to the kitchen to scrounge for dessert.

I was ravenous, like I was back in my parents’ house and hadn’t eaten for a couple of days.

One thing about being hungry was that it was a sensation that never really left.

It didn’t matter how full my stomach was or how much food was in the cupboards.

When stressful things happened, my body immediately became convinced that I was starving to death.

Could the heart belong to Noah? On the one hand, it had to belong to somebody . On the other hand, I was convinced that if it was his, I would know. I thought of the tree on the path, the one scarred with our initials. A part of me was certain that his insides would bear the same marks.

When my father died, I didn’t let myself feel it. I told myself that there was little difference between death and prison when he didn’t speak to me anyway. Like lying to other people, lying to myself wasn’t effective. I started drinking a lot, slacking on my homework. I couldn’t sleep.

“What’s going on with you?” my roommate asked.

“Nothing. I’m fine,” I insisted.

In retrospect, it was likely that my irresponsible behavior was a manifestation of my grief. I thought I’d matured in the decade since my father passed, but that was one of the things about death—no one ever really got used to it.

I couldn’t accept the possibility that the heart belonged to Noah.

I assured myself that he would show up at any moment.

Molly and I got into a fight. I needed to spend a few days with the boys.

I’m ready to marry you now. Let’s go buy that house.

I couldn’t think about the other possibility, that he had disappeared and been murdered mere hours after coming by and having sex with me.

I had a load of emails waiting for me at my desk. Ordinarily I would’ve been annoyed, but I was grateful for the distraction. Compared with disposing of body parts, emptying my inbox was easy.

Tyler accepted the date with Rebecca.

Finally, a woman with a real car.

Aidan rejected Mary, a woman whose profile I’d sent him knowing it was futile. Was that because I was waiting for the perfect person to match him with, or because I didn’t want him to match with anyone at all?

Not quite my type. I’m looking for someone a little bit more like you. How was your date with your fiancé?

A couple I’d set up the year prior informed me that they were engaged, and they wanted to know where to send a save-the-date card.

The Better Love offices are fine. Congratulations on your engagement!

I ignored the thump in my chest, the one that said Noah is missing. And then, a beat later, What if he’s dead?

I paused midmorning to refill my coffee and use the bathroom.

I almost felt ordinary. On Love on the Lake , cast members would get into near brawls with one another on a drunken night out, and then spend the following day playing games on the beach.

It was an odd contrast, but all of us did things like that.

We walked around with the knowledge of the worst things that had ever happened to us, and drank our cups of coffee and answered our little emails like doing so might heal something.

The cognitive dissonance was mind-boggling.

I supposed that it was necessary for survival.

I ran into Nicole outside the restroom. She wore a frilly fuchsia dress that hurt my eyes.

“Hey, Lexie,” she said.

Like most pretty girls, Nicole was adept at pretending to be friendly with people she loathed, mostly because she couldn’t bear the thought of someone disliking her.

When we’d first started working together, I’d taken her greetings as olive branches, before realizing that they were covered in thorns.

“I’ve been meaning to pull you for a chat,” she told me, like we were on an episode of a reality dating show.

“I actually need to pee really badly,” I replied. I tried to move past her, but her body blocked the door. I was envious that such a small person could be so good at taking up space.

“It’s only going to take a minute,” she said.

She placed her hand on my arm, and I resisted the urge to pull away.

Her long nails, painted pink for Valentine’s Day, pressed into my skin.

I suddenly got the sense that she knew more than she said.

She and Molly followed each other on social media.

Was it possible that she knew about the breakup?

Or, worse, could she somehow know about the heart?

I wouldn’t put it past her to somehow have discovered secrets about my life.

Nicole was the kind of woman who understood how to weaponize gossip.

“Both of us are in the running for the director position,” Nicole continued, relaxing her grip. “It’s important that we remain civil. I’ll be happy for you if you get it, and in return, I expect you to be happy for me.”

Her words said one thing and her tone another. It was clear that she thought the job was already hers. She was relishing the idea of being in a position in which she would have power over me.

In response, I gave her a genuine smile, relieved that she didn’t know anything aside from the obvious. Why had I overestimated her like that? The news of Noah’s disappearance had put me on edge.

“Of course,” I replied. “I know that we both just want what’s best for Better Love.”

“Yeah, what’s best for Better Love,” Nicole echoed. She seemed pleased with herself, like something had been resolved. It was clear that she had never been desperate for something.

When I got back to my desk there was a bouquet of roses waiting for me, with a small white envelope tucked among them.

Noah! My heart leapt.

He was alive after all. I’d been so stupid to think that the heart could be his.

He was so young, so alive, so destined to be mine.

It was impossible that he would be murdered and delivered to my door in pieces.

I’d read online that pig hearts resembled those of humans.

That was probably what it was—a silly prank that I’d mistaken for a capital crime.

I pressed my nose to the petals and breathed in that quintessential scent.

It was relatively common for us to receive thank-you bouquets at Better Love, but they were platonic things.

Roses were unmistakably romantic, too expensive to indicate anything other than love.

As I pulled the card from the prongs that held it in place, Aidan’s presence at the florist passed through my brain. Could the roses be from him?

The outside of the envelope was blank.

Noah—please be Noah.

I took out my letter opener. One year, Noah had gotten me a basket full of pink office supplies as an anniversary gift. It was romantic in a way that he knew how to be; for him, everything was about work.

The letter opener had a pink handle; it was a cute little weapon. I ran it underneath the seal, wondering whether Noah’s tongue had licked that flap, and I slid the card out of the envelope. I flipped it open.

Written in all caps, with red pen, were the words: I KNOW WHO YOUR PARENTS ARE.