We worked in silence for a while before Erin said, "It's nice that you were worried about me. Warning me about people hacking into phones, that is. Some people are assholes."
"They really are," I agreed. "It's a good idea not to keep too much personal information on devices like that."
She gave me a look like I was an old woman and she was a wise teenager.
"You know we keepeverythingon our phones these days, right? We do everything but make phone calls with them. Youdon't have to worry. Like I said, I don't take nude selfies. I do keep the dick pics I get sent though."
Now it was my turn to give her a look.
She laughed. "Not because I want them. Whenever I get one, I respond to it with one some other guy sent. They never send them again."
I grinned. "That's actually awesome."
"Right? A friend of mine once sent one to the guy's mother. I don't think he ever did it again either. Although, the mother was probably traumatized." Erin didn't look like she was too concerned in that department.
"I would be," I said.
"You wouldn't need to be," she assured me. "You'd raise your sons not to do that."
"Thank you for the vote of confidence, but I'm not sure it's that simple," I said.
Kids would be kids, but any child of mine would learn early all about consent. Boys or girls, it wouldn't matter, I'd make sure they understood.
"I bet you'd teach them to cook." She put aside the last pear and started to pull vol au vent cases out of the oven and put them aside to cool.
"Absolutely I would," I agreed. "No child of mine is leaving home without all the basic life skills. Cooking, laundry, taxes."
Whether I'd actually have children someday was another thing. I'm not sure any kid would want to be the daughter of a serial killer. What would they do if I got caught someday? Go around telling all of their friends they're the offspring of Chef Stabby?
That would come with a whole bunch of stigmatism. No, they deserved better than that. If I ever had kids, I'd have to make extra sure not to get caught.
"Can you adopt me?" Erin joked.
"You already know how to cook and do laundry," I said.
"Yes, buttaxes," she moaned dramatically.
Her puppy dog eyes were almost enough to convince me to offer help, but I wasn't an accountant. Besides, dealing with my own taxes was taxing enough. Pun completely intended.
I laughed. "Nothing you can't handle, I promise. Now, I need to get started on the salmon. Can you get out the chicken and get it ready for the grill? I'm going to make little sliders." They were always a favorite amongst partygoers. Who didn't love a chicken slider?
"Of course." She headed over to the fridge and started to pull out meat. "What's this?" She turned around, a bag of definitely-not-chicken in her hand.
We must have had a small amount of someone left that I'd forgotten about it.
Shit.
I usually dealt with that in the hour before she started in the kitchen. Her finding it meant I was getting sloppy. None of us could afford for me to slip up that badly.
"Pork," I said quickly. "Throw it in the trash, it's been there for a couple of days. I'd forgotten about it."
I hoped like hell she didn't see through my obvious lie. In a place like this, we couldn't afford to forget about meat. Or any other food for that matter. We used everything while it was fresh or we sent it to one of the local shelters. Nothing went to waste. Ever.
"Huh." She peered more closely at it. "Shame." She tossed it toward the trash can and missed, the meat landing on the floor with a splat. "Sorry!"
Pulling on a clean pair of gloves, she peeled it up off the floor, bag and all, threw it in the trash and started to clean up the floor where the blood was oozing, the red almost accusing.
Sorry, not sorry, Carl.
