Page 151 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Wash the thoughts. Wash the memories. Wash the part of me that liked it.

But it doesn’t go away.

It’s not on my skin anymore.

It’s under it.

Eventually, the ache in my bones catches up. The adrenaline thins, leaving me hollow and too heavy to hold up. My body drags itself out of the tub like a ghost of its former self.

At least I avoided the faint bloodstain where my clothes were.

Something in me will remember to clean that up later.

Towel. Hair wrap. Lotion I don’t remember applying.

I stare at my reflection in the fogged-up mirror and barely recognize myself. My eyes are different. Like something I’ve never seen is looking back at me.

I tiptoe to the bathroom door and pause.

What if he’s still out there?

He, as in the guy in the mask.

Not the dead one outside, marinating in moonlight and eye gravy.

No, the other one. The one who’s been watching me. Carrying me like I’m breakable—and his.

I press my ear to the wood.

Silence.

Well, that’s not comforting.

I crack the door just wide enough to peek.

Dexter looks up at me.

Perfectly clean. Comically fluffy. Settled in his tiny bed like a spoiled croissant, gnawing on a bone with all the menace of a slightly drunk toddler.

He’s wearing a bow tie.

A pink one.

The one that came with that ridiculous golfer outfit I bought him during an emotional blackout in a boutique aisle. He’s freshly groomed, snaggletooth working overtime like none of tonight ever happened.

Like I didn’t make him a criminal accomplice.

Like he’s not technically a witness.

“Hey, you little fuzz-narc,” I whisper.

He stops chewing. Ears perk.

Then trots over like the most joyful of murder partners.

He’s not judging me.

Not Dexter.

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