Part 1Dating a Killer Online

I ate, he killed.

I slept, he killed.

In our chats, he'd even send me gruesome photos.

"Killed three today," he'd text with a smiley face, "I'm such a busy little bee."

I'd respond with graphic descriptions of pig slaughter back on my family’s farm.

I thought we were just two abstract individuals with a shared love for the macabre.

Until one day, a message popped up:

"Baby, after this kill, I'll meet you in person."

The location was right outside my apartment building.

* * *

I didn't take Asher Flynn's words seriously.

Waking up from a hangover, my head felt like it was splitting. But for the sake of our first meeting, I rushed to wash my hair.

I casually shot back, "When I see you, I'm going to kiss you to death!"

In real life, I'm pretty reserved; online, I'm a total firecracker.

Just as I was testing the water temperature, a sudden clarity hit me.

How did Asher know where I lived?

I had never revealed any real personal information to him.

When I ordered takeout or received gifts, I always had him convert it to cash and send it to me.

I typed out a question.

Asher replied:

[You posted it in the group last night.]

I quickly opened our chat group – it was a true-crime and mystery enthusiast's forum. Asher and I had met there.

At midnight last night, I'd posted a location, with the caption:

[Come find me, everyone!]

[Thirty floors, one hundred and eighty units, guess which one I am?]

The group was lively with replies:

[Forensics Fanatic 1: No way, your star killer would murder us all!]

[Forensics Fanatic 8: I bet you're a total bombshell, Asher's a lucky guy!]

[Forensics Fanatic 16: This place looks familiar, I think I've handled a case there.]

There were seventeen people in the group, all calling themselves "Forensics Fanatics."

I was the seventeenth. I'd stumbled in one day after a random search.

Everyone in the group absolutely loved true crime and mysteries.

Asher replied to me:

[So happy, my target is in the same building as you.]

He had wanted to come find me in the middle of the night.

He'd sent me a flurry of excited emojis in private messages.

Half-asleep, I'd replied: [No late-night mischief, mister!]

So he'd rescheduled for the morning.

My toes curled with embarrassment. I'm a homebody with social anxiety.

I quickly messaged him that I didn't actually live there.

I was a "haunted house" test sleeper.

This apartment had seen eight deaths a year ago, it was truly cursed.

My employer had paid me half a million dollars to live here for a year.

Today was the last day, and I'd happily opened a bottle of wine to celebrate.

I was moving out this afternoon.

I hadn't told Asher about this; I was afraid he'd judge me.

I just said: [I'm moving this afternoon, it's not convenient.]

Asher was insistent, saying he could "clear the scene" in an hour.

Alright, fine.

I felt a mix of anticipation and a secret resolution.

If he was handsome, we'd keep seeing each other. If he was ugly, I'd make a run for it.