Page 25 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

For now.

But if I blink—if I breathe wrong—she won’t be.

And I finally get it.

The system isn’t broken, it’s slow.

And Travis Gannon is not.

When Mari needs help, the law won’t get there in time.

Icome bearing emergency annotation tabs and emotional damage.

The annotation tabs are for my mom’s book club—color-coded little rectangles of joy that she swears by for keeping track of plot twists, foreshadowing, and the exact paragraph where she decided a character deserved to die.

She called earlier in full-blown panic mode, claiming her last pink tab betrayed her and curled at the corner.

So naturally, I stopped by the office supply store on my way over.

Because if there’s one thing I understand, it’s the importance of good stationery.

She meets me at the door still in her pajamas and bathrobe. That means she picked up her book this morning and probably only put it down to answer the door.

“You brought them!” she gasps, snatching the little packet from my hand like it’s an organ transplant.

“I live to serve,” I say, holding up a second pack. “Bonus yellows. And limited-edition dragon-scale ones. You’re welcome.”

She gives me that look—the one she used when I was ten and brought home a glittered-up diorama of the Boston Tea Party—and pulls me into a quick side-hug.

But the moment she gets a good look at my face, her smile wavers.

“It’s that client again, isn’t it?” she asks gently, ushering me inside.

I don’t answer. I just make a beeline for the kitchen, drop my bag onto the bench, and fold like a lawn chair over the marble counter.

The stone is cool. Soothing. Emotionally supportive, like an expensive therapist with zero judgment.

“Yes,” I mumble into the countertop. “It’s Mariela.”

Mom doesn’t ask for details. Not yet. She knows better than to crowd the story.

Instead, she hums softly, opens the fridge, and starts assembling a sandwich. Ham, sharp cheddar, lettuce, tomato—light mayo, no mustard. Diagonal cut, obviously. I’m not an uncultured savage. It hits the plate like a love letter from the universe.

I wasn’t even hungry.

But I eat it.

Between bites, I talk.

I tell her about the hotel. The note. The condom. My fear.

And the worst part?

How powerless I feel. Like I’m screaming into a canyon and the only thing echoing back is paperwork.

Mom doesn’t interrupt. She just pours me a glass of sparkling water with lemon, like hydration might stop my brain from spiraling.

When I don’t talk for a while, she pats my hand, trying to move the heavy burden from my shoulders, if only for a little while.

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