Page 134 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Maybe some part of her felt it. That primal itch under the skin that says you’re being watched. That hair-raising chill that whispersrun.

She’s sharp. Smarter than most.

She’s been surrounded by predators long enough to sniff one out when he’s breathing too close.

I fumble for my phone again and hit redial.

It rings.

Voicemail.

I slam my fist into the steering wheel so hard it cracks the plastic.

“Fuck!”

It echoes through the car like a gunshot. I don’t even flinch. I want the pain. I deserve it for letting her get that close to something I should’ve stopped.

The security feed on the iPad shows her slamming the door behind her, back pressed to it, panting like she just outran a goddamn monster.

“Good,” I mutter through gritted teeth. “Good girl. You fucking felt it.”

She doesn’t know why, maybe. Can’t name it. But she knew.

And thank fucking God for that.

“Just stay inside, Poppy. Please—fucking stay inside.”

My hands are shaking now, but not from fear. Not even from adrenaline.

It’s rage.

Boiling, blinding, bone-deep rage that’s been building in my bloodstream since I watched him sneak into her house. Since I saw what he left behind. Since I realized he was circling her, studying her, planning something slow and specific.

That fucker planted rope in her home like it was a starter kit for torture. He chose a blade for very specific pain.

And then he played the long game. Waited for the right moment when she was alone. For her car to vanish. For a ride request to pop up when she wasn’t thinking anything of it.

He engineered the entire moment.

And I let it happen.

My foot is welded to the gas, the speedometer long past legal, weaving through traffic like I’m on fire. Every car I pass is just an obstacle between me and her.

I try her other phone number even though I know she blocked me days ago.

It doesn’t ring. It just beeps three times.

It was stupid to hope, but even still, my heart drops like a stone.

I smack the dash with the heel of my hand so hard the whole console shudders. A light pops on that I don’t have time to read.

My knuckles are white on the wheel. My head’s pounding and still, I drive faster.

Because if he’s still out there... if he said something to her in the car that tipped her off, he may have noticed a change in her demeanor. He may decide to just do it now.

Double back.

No more waiting. No more slow-play.

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