Page 124 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

And—

Called another fucking rideshare.

And that is what pisses me off.

Unknown men in unknown cars, pulling up to the curb like it’s nothing. She’s trusting them with her safety, her address, trusting them to leave her in one piece when they drop her off alone, in the dark.

She doesn’t realize how risky that is.

Worse—her rental was conveniently picked up earlier today. “No longer needed,” they said. Not her words. Not her doing.

Someone got her out of the house. Without transportation. Without options.

It’s too fucking staged.

My gut twists tight and sharp as I scan the camera feeds, flipping from room to room, looking for anything that’s off.

And then I see it.

A chair. One of the ones by the bay window in her living room.

It’s crooked. Slightly off angle. Tilted inward like it was used and not returned to its rightful place.

That might not seem like much. To anyone else, it wouldn’t even register.

But Poppy?

She’s a perfectionist in motion. Every chair aligned. Pillows fluffed. Throw blanket folded like it belongs in a catalog. She doesn’t do off-center.

She would never leave it like that.

The beer on the table is forgotten. My hand is already on the remote, rewinding fast, skipping backward through the footage in staggered blips of movement.

There—yesterday—she’s walking Dexter in her backyard. Headphones in, listening to witness testimony like she always does.

When her alarm system would have been off—just for that short window while she walked the dog she spoils more than most people treat their children.

And that’s when a man appears, and my blood runs cold.

Mid-thirties, maybe. Hoodie pulled tight. Ball cap. Head down. He sprints up her porch and lets himself in.

The door closes.

Inside, he moves fast. Controlled. His body language is practiced. This isn’t a break-in. It’s a setup.

I lean in closer as he walks to the bay window chair—the one that’s crooked now—and pulls something from inside his jacket.

An eight-inch serrated hunting knife with a bright orange handle.

He slides it under the seat cushion.

“Mother fucker.”

Next, he moves to the second chair and stuffs something thick beneath it. Rope. Coiled, tucked. Hidden.

Everything inside me goes cold. Still.

Not angry.

---