Page 26 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

“Come to book club with me.” There’s a hopeful sparkle in her blue eyes that makes me hesitate. But who are we kidding? She never leaves the house, so if Mom invites me out... I’m going.

“Are you still reading about the dark fae prince with blue skin who broods for a living?” I roll my eyes. It’s fairy smut.

Which, from what I can tell, is 90 percent smoldering eye contact, 10 percent plot, and one very horny prince who may or may not be made of shadows.

But she loves it. And that’s what matters.

“Yes. But it’s his cousin who is the real star of the court.”

Mmm, right.

“The raven?”

“Crow.” She corrects, walking back into her room to change clothes.

We head out together, and I try to be present. I try not to check my phone every five minutes. I try not to let my brain slide back into the echo chamber of what-ifs that have taken up residence behind my eyes.

Sebastian helps some, sending me pictures of his possible date outfits as he gets ready for his millionth first date of the year.

But somewhere between the driveway and the start of the book discussion, I start biting the inside of my cheek.

Same spot. Over and over. Sharp, repetitive. Familiar.

Then I’m scratching at my scalp—a nervous, rhythmic twitch at the edge of my hairline.

It’s not until Mom gently places her hand over mine and gives me the look—the one that’s halfway between a warning and a hug—that I snap out of it.

Right. Tics are back.

OCD flares when the stress hits a certain pitch.

I take a slow breath and reach for the silver dollar in my purse—the one I’ve kept since law school. Worn smooth along the edges. Just the right weight.

I start rolling it across my knuckles.

One, two, three, four, back again.

It always works. My mind slows, if only slightly, as my fingers stay busy.

I tune back into the room just in time to hear Donna ask, “Do you think he can feel with the shadows? Like... pressure? Texture?”

My soul briefly leaves my body, files a restraining order, and returns wearing noise-canceling headphones.

The room buzzes with agreement, and someone uses the phrase “strategic penetration” without even blushing.

I stare at my water glass like it might open a portal and suck me out of this reality.

Here’s the thing: it’s not that I hate sex. It’s not even that I’ve sworn it off. I just... don’t think about it. Not really.

I had sex a few times. In college. It was brief. Clumsy. Loud in the wrong ways. The kind of experience that makes you wish you’d just stayed home with a grilled cheese and an episode ofForensic Files.

My therapist says I should “explore that more”—that maybe I haven’t had a positive sexual experience, so my brain defaulted to avoid. But honestly? I’m fine. I have my wine and a crime docuseries queue that’s six seasons deep. I have a vibrator. I sleep great.

And growing up in a house where the wordsexwas avoided like a swear word didn’t exactly create a safe space to explore it. Understandably, my mom wasn’t rushing into sex talks—not when she spent the first decade of my life dragging us across the state to stay out of reach of the man who raped her.

So now, sitting in this pastel living room full of book club moms discussing how a dark prince uses sentient shadows in intimate places, I do what any self-respecting, emotionally repressed daughter would do:

I let my eyes glaze over and focus on the silver dollar in my palm.

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