Page 14 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

I grab the peach pie I picked up—because I couldn’t show up empty-handed, and Mom will notice if I look like I haven’t eaten—and head upstairs.

She opens the door before I knock.

“Took you long enough,” she says, smiling as she pulls me into a hug that smells like roasted garlic and moisturizer.

“I brought pie,” I say, muffled into her shoulder.

She steps back, eyes narrowing just enough to clock something. “You’re pale.”

“I’m always pale.”

“You’re pale like something’s bothering you.”

I brush past her. “I’m fine, Mom.”

Her place is tidy, of course. Cozy but not cluttered—books stacked on the radiator shelf, a half-done puzzle on the coffee table. The scent of dinner—meatballs, maybe eggplant—grounds me.

We’ve never been big on traditions. No matching aprons. No themed table settings.

But Sunday supper? Non-negotiable.

For a few hours, we pretend the world isn’t broken.

She dishes food while I set the table, both of us falling into rhythm. I try not to bring up work.

But when my phone buzzes for the fifth time and it’s another spam email—still no Mari—I feel her eyes on me.

Mom doesn’t speak right away. Just sips her water and watches me over the rim, gauging how hard to push.

“Is it the girl?”

I freeze.

She always knows.

“What girl?” I ask, cutting into a meatball with too much focus.

Her brows lift. “The girl you’ve been avoiding since you walked in like someone torched your favorite organizer.”

I stare at my plate, trying to lie to someone who literally made my face. It’s impossible.

I sigh, setting my fork down.

“Her name’s Mari. She’s a victim in a trial that got thrown out this week.”

Mom’s expression stays steady, but something dims behind her eyes.

“And she’s in danger now,” she says.

“She got a restraining order. But he’s still around. Sending photos. The police say it’s not actionable.”

“Of course they did.”

No bitterness. Just fact.

I nod, looking down, suddenly five years old again—helpless.

“I don’t know what to do,” I whisper. “The law won’t protect her until something happens. Something?—”

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