Page 130 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

“I’m losing my mind,” I whisper, heading for the drawer in the hutch—the one that holds reassurance.

My mother’s knife.

I don’t know why I grab it. But the weight settles in my palm, and something in me slows.

Calmer.

Not fine—but closer to functional.

My pulse steadies. My spine straightens.

The edge of the panic backs off enough to let me breathe.

But it doesn’t stay away. It starts crawling back under my skin, slick and sharp.

My fingers rise to my scalp without me noticing, nails scratching the same patch they always find when I spiral—like I’m trying to dig out the thought that started it.

Everything feels chaotic. Wrong.

But I can fix that.

Cleaning helps.

It has order. A beginning, a middle, an end. Cause and effect. Something that still obeys the laws of sanity.

Dexter stares at me, unblinking. Snaggletooth gleaming like a warning.

I stop scratching, drop my hand, and inhale.

He yips, nosing the grocery bag like I’ve forgotten the real crisis.

“Right. Okay. Mr. Picky Pants. Let’s see if you’ll eat tonight.”

I line up three overpriced, artisanal, vet-recommended packets like a tasting menu at Le Bark. Duck. Stew with Lamb and pumpkin—more expensive than my favorite bottle of wine.

I spoon a bit of each onto a tiny crystal dish I once used for olives.

He sniffs. Circles. Pauses. Then—of course—goes straight for the duck with the gravy and bougie compostable packaging.

He licks it clean.

Twice.

I narrow my eyes. “Really? That’s the one?”

A burp. Followed by a full-body wiggle of smugness.

I throw my hands up.

“I’ve created a monster. A fluffy, bougie little monster.”

Dexter finishes eating like the tiny culinary diva he is, then prances to the side door and gives a single, commanding bark.

Bathroom break.

Of course.

I’m so frazzled, the thought of going outside sends my heart rate to the sky. And this is one person’s fault.

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