Page 245 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

I don’t look back.

If I look at her now, I’ll say too much.

Do too much.

And tonight isn’t about what I want, it’s about what she needs.

We leave the lights behind.

Drive past the edge of town where the skyline fades into industry and gravel.

Out past the factories, past the mills, past everything that even pretends to be civil.

The road narrows.

Dirt and trees swallow the car like a secret.

The kind of place where no one asks questions. Where no one comes looking.

Finally, I pull up to the old barn and kill the engine.

The world outside falls into silence so deep you could drown in it.

I sit for a second. Then turn to her.

“What happens next is your choice.”

Her brow furrows—cautious, tired, still haunted.

“You don’t have to go in,” I say. “You can take the car. Turn around, drive back to the highway. It’s a straight shot from here. No tricks. No strings.”

I let the offer hang there. Not because I want her to take it. But because she needs to know this isn’t about me.

Not this part.

This part’s hers.

Then I open my door and step into the chill.

Gravel crunches under my boots as I move toward the barn.

I don’t look back.

She’ll either come or she won’t.

But if she comes . . . she’ll never be the same.

The barn groans as I push the doors open.

Rotting wood. Rusted hinges. Cold air thick with the smell of old hay and newer blood.

She steps in behind me. I hear the gravel shift under her boots, the slight hitch in her breath.

The dark swallows everything at first. No lights. Just the low moon bleeding through the gaps in the boards.

Graham is waiting for her.

Strapped to an old steel dental chair, center of the room.

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