Page 128 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

The spot on my thumb. If I could just pick it off...

“You okay?” he asks, and I realize I’ve been staring at a can labeledLamb & Lentilslike it insulted my entire family.

“Oh yeah. Totally,” I lie. “Just... long day. Busy week. Murder, mystery, burnt dinner, you know.”

“I love a good murder-mystery show.”

Riiight. That’s totally what I meant.

I grab several of the most expensive containers because clearly I’ve lost control of everything else, so why not throw money at the one living creature still depending on me.

Dexter deserves a little rotisserie comfort.

At checkout, my thoughts are a mess. Stalker texts. A corpse. And this weird, skin-crawling anticipation I can’t shake.

All I want is to go home with my comfy jam-jams and some Indian takeout. A show about murder that doesn’t involve me personally.

Is that really too much to ask?

The ride back starts off... quiet.

Not peaceful quiet, not the kind you melt into with a sigh. The other kind. The kind that hums in your ears and makes you hyperaware of your own breathing.

No music. No podcast. No hum of talk radio or cheerful GPS lady. Just tires on pavement and the occasional blinker.

Sometimes I like quiet—but today it feels wrong.

I lean my head back and exhale, trying to shake off the knot of tension that’s lived behind my ribs since I found that body this morning. And yet, as strange as this ride feels, something’s off.

It’s the same driver who picked me up from the vet’s office last week.

I didn’t realize it until he was already pulling away. But it’s the same guy. Same lemon-scented air freshener. Same spotless floorboards and CrossFit-branded water bottle.

That vet’s office is over an hour away. Which makes this… either a coincidence or a very ambitious commute.

He glances at me in the mirror as we hit a red light, catching me staring and offers a pleasant, neutral smile.

“Traffic’s brutal around here this time of day. Took me forever to get across town.”

I nod absently, still unsure whether to feel comforted or trapped.

“Funny seeing you again all the way out here,” I say.

“Yeah, I run this whole area,” he replies. “I live nearby. Lot of repeat customers—it’s more common than people think.”

That makes sense. Sort of.

The light changes and we keep going.

He asks about my dog—remembers him poking his head out of my purse, all attitude and fluff.

“I’ve got a big mutt at home,” he says. “Total food vacuum. Eats everything but the leash.”

I chuckle. “Mine’s the opposite. Dexter thinks he’s royalty. Won’t eat unless his kibble’s been blessed by a Michelin chef. I’m basically a prisoner in a hostage negotiation over turkey-flavored wet food.”

He laughs, and for a moment, it feels normal again.

Until I glance at the windshield.

---