Page 127 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Dexter is going to starve.

I found a dead body today.

My stalker had my rental car picked up.

And oh, right—Travis Gannon—the man I murdered—has officially been reported missing.

So yeah, I’m great. Just fantastic. My left eye is not twitching at all.

Every cell in my body hums with “maybe you should be panicking” energy, but I’ve shoved it down deep enough that on the outside, I probably look like someone with just enough control not to get tackled by store security.

So, you know, we’re getting there.

The fluorescent lights feel like judgment. Harsh and unforgiving. I try to keep my expression neutral as I head downthe dog aisle, like I’m not doing mental math on when the police might knock.

Because they will.

They’ll start asking questions.

Travis’s phone will ping near Mari’s building that night… unless he turned it off. Unlikely. But mine will ping the same tower.

Because I was there.

And yeah, I’ve got my story:

I was checking on my client. Hello, suicide attempt.

I cleaned up after the chaos like a caring attorney. I called a locksmith. All of it’s true.

What I won’t say is that I followed a serial rapist for blocks and stabbed him. More than once.

That I liked it.

I close my eyes as the memory hits like a whisper behind my ear.

The glide of the blade. The resistance of skin. The quiet that followed.

Jeepers, that quiet.

Don’t think about it.

Not now. Not here.

I’m picking the skin around my thumb. That one spot. It helps. While I spiral. While I push back thoughts I should never have—never admit.

“Back again, huh?” a voice says.

I blink and look up.

It’s the guy who helped me last time. What’s-his-name.

Like actually. Is it Mitch? Micah? Marvin? No, wait.

“I’m being emotionally manipulated by a dog,” I say, gesturing vaguely at the shelves and the chaos of options that mean nothing to me.

He laughs and nods. “Ah, not eating the dry food? Some dogs don’t care for it.”

He starts showing me wet food, fresh pouches, fridge stuff. I nod and try to follow, but my brain’s still ten steps behind, spinning through cell tower pings and blood-soaked flashbacks.

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