Page 279 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

The house looms ahead, tucked into the shadows like it’s waiting.

I go the rest on foot, gun low but ready, every muscle wound tight, thrumming with rage I barely recognize.

Not the hot kind. Something colder. Heavier. The kind that drives a man into Hell to get her back.

I check every window. Empty.

No movement.

No lookouts.

No one waiting to pull the trigger.

The front door swings open, the wind nudging it like a taunt.

This is too easy.

Either someone inside is an idiot—or it’s a trap.

I slip in, gun sweeping each shadow.

Living room.

Kitchen.

Empty.

Nothing but the sound of my heartbeat.

It’s too quiet. Too still. A weight pressing on my chest.

Fear would be a mercy.

This is worse. If she’s not here, she could be anywhere. That thought almost drops me.

No. Not yet.

In the main room, something catches my eye—a fireplace flanked by bookshelves.

There—just visible in the dust—scuff marks.

The shelf swings out. It’s a hidden door.

I start yanking books, rough and impatient, prayers rattling in my chest.

Please.

Finally—a click.

The shelf creaks open.

A tunnel. Dim light bleeding from around the bend.

I move into the dark without hesitation, gun ready—but nothing prepares me for the war inside my chest.

Every step feels like walking a wire strung over a pit.

One wrong move and I lose her.

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