Page 121 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

And I know I shouldn’t feel safe with someone who looks at crime scenes the way other people look at art—but I do. And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.

We pull up to my place and Declan puts the car in park but doesn’t shift to leave.

“Your car in the shop?”

I nod. “Yeah. I think the alternator tried to break up with me last week.”

He watches me carefully. “You need another ride, call me.”

I blink. “Oh. Um. Okay.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Just stays there as I get out, awkwardly juggling my purse, my nerves, and a bag of cookies that somehow feel more important now than they did ten minutes ago.

I turn at the door, and give him a small wave.

He doesn’t wave back but raises two fingers in a very macho I-can’t-let-go-of-the-sterring-wheel-and-compromise-showing-off-my-forearm-muscles kind of way.

But he doesn’t drive off either—not until I’m inside and the door’s locked.

And it makes me feel a little safer.

Not totally.

But a little.

The door shuts behind me with a satisfying click—like punctuation at the end of a long day.

I toss my keys onto the table, let them clatter across the wood, and head straight for the fridge.

I deserve a beer.

I earned one.

I crack the bottle open just as I press the button on the remote, ready to tune in to my favorite show.

ThePoppy Hartwell Show.

God, she’s beautiful in high-def, and coming home to see her on the television is the highlight of my day.

She’s realized now I’ve been taunting her.

Intentionally. Strategically.

I let her know I was there—and then nothing.

The absence of me is its own kind of presence. And it’s driving her mad.

She’s looking for me now. Not consciously—not in a way she’ll admit—but in the way her eyes scan the corners of a dark room.

In the way she double-checks locked doors and glances into her purse to make sure the burner I gave her is still there. Still waiting.

She wants to hear from me.

Needs it even.

And that’s exactly how I want her.

The big screen blinks to life with a grid of warm, familiar spaces—each one a room in her house. Bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, hallway, even the stupid laundry nook she never uses because she always forgets to move things to the dryer.

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