Page 260 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Instead, I get dressed.

I go to the store.

I buy the things a woman buys when she’s preparing to unmake her own life—signal detectors, new locks, Wi-Fi scramblers.

The man at the checkout couldn’t tell if I was FBI or just insane.

When I get home, I start searching.

I tear through my house in silence.

No curses. No cries.

Just the steady, mechanical work of a woman determined to strip every lie down to its studs.

Fifty.

I find fifty hidden cameras before I lose count.

In vents.

Outlets.

Seams of picture frames.

Corners of my life where I thought no one could reach me.

They were everywhere.

He was everywhere.

The man who watched me.

The man who waited for me to fall apart so he could catch me.

The man who made me fall in love with him.

Twice.

At once.

I rip the last camera from its hiding place with shaking hands, tossing it into the pile growing like rot on the dining room table.

Dexter sticks close, engaged in his own frantic mission.

He holds a stuffed giraffe by the neck, sprinting back and forth in a brutal battle that Dexter is determined to win.

I don’t turn on the TV.

I don’t reach for music.

I don’t text my mom for her latest fae-porn update.

I just clean.

I bleach the kitchen.

I scrub the floors.

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