Page 143 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

He squints toward the side of the house. Whines.

I glance too, but there’s nothing there. Just the overgrown hedge and a dark smear of shadow pooling near the fence line.

“Probably… a opossum,” I mutter. But the hairs on my neck don’t buy it.

I move toward the door again, faster now. Blood-slick footsteps. Every sound feels loud, like the night is holding its breath.

Dexter growls—low and warning—but I’m already reaching for the knob.

That’s when I hear something.

Not a car. Not a branch. Footsteps.

Close. Fast.

Too fast.

A figure barrels toward me out of the dark, and I barely have time to raise the knife before hands—large, strong—close around me. One clamps over my mouth, the other grabs my wrist, pinning it back before the blade can land.

My back slams into the door.

Hard.

I thrash, kick, scream against the palm covering my face, but it doesn’t budge.

I can’t breathe. Can’t move. Can’t see?—

Not again.

Then a voice—low, commanding, terrifyingly close to my ear—whispers:

“Shhhhh... it’s me.”

The second I get my hands on her, it’s like the earth rights itself.

Like gravity snaps back into place, and I can finally stand again. My gloved hand clamps over her mouth—not out of cruelty, but necessity. She’s vibrating with panic, and I need her still. Need her to know it’s me. That she’s not alone anymore.

My other hand seizes her wrist, pressing it hard into the doorframe—too hard, maybe, but I’ve been chasing her shadow across this city, and now I have her. I couldn’t let go of her even if I wanted to.

Also, I don’t want her to slice me up like her friend back here.

Her body molds against mine, and I press her into the wood like I can imprint her there. Like I can carve her shape into this house and make it remember she belongs here.

She’s shaking. Terrified. And it’s beautiful.

Because it means she’s still alive.

And I got to her.

My thigh slots between hers to keep her still. Keep her mine.

I lower my voice, soft as silk, whispering against the crown of her hair. “Shhhh… it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

I feel her exhale. I see her mind working it out.

The breath she lets out isn’t relief.

It’s surrender.

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