Page 131 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Mr. Silent-Treatment Stalker.

If he hadn’t had my rental picked up, I could’ve driven myself. I wouldn’t be paranoid about some mid-life private school teacher moonlighting as a ferry for strangers.

Did Declan offer to drive me? Yes.

Would I have called him for a kibble run? Absolutely not.

Does the object of my paranoid delusions deserve my irritation?

Sure does. And I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.

The knife is coming with me. It’s cold and steady in my grip, grounding me, if only for a breath. I dig through my bag with one hand, the other gripping the handle.

No stalker-phone.

Cheese and crackers, it’s not here.

I check the floor. The counter. Couch cushions. Panic rises like acid.

I must’ve dropped it somewhere between slamming the door and trying not to hyperventilate.

Because of course I did. Because why wouldn’t I misplace my stalker-issued terror device the same day I found a man with his throat cut open like a soda can?

I squeeze my eyes shut. Breathe.

“We need to calm down.”

I put both hands out, speaking to Dexter like he’s part of the hysteria. He’s not.

He waits patiently by the door while I have my breakdown.

It’s probably right outside. Maybe it slipped from my pocket when I tripped over my own feet.

“Okay, I can do this,” I mutter.

Dexter needs to go out, and—scientifically speaking—indoor peeing is a stronger trigger than potential homicide.

I exhale. Flick the lock and open the door.

Just a minute. Just long enough for Dexter to do his thing.

It’s cooler now. Quiet in that eerie way residential streets get at night when it’s too still.

Dexter trots forward like he owns the street.

And there it is. On the pavement.

My heart jerks into my throat.

The phone.

I crouch, scoop it up in one hand, knife white-knuckled in the other.

The moment I flip it open, the screen lights up.

Seventy-three texts. Forty-five missed calls.

“My stalker has separation anxiety. Cool.”

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