Page 28 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

The more I think about it, the more certain I am.

I’ll sit outside and watch the building. I’ll keep my camera rolling and the emergency line on standby. If I catch him even lurking near her apartment, I’ll call it in. He’s under a restraining order. It’ll be enough to bring him in.

I straighten my shoulders a little.

You do whatever you have to.

And if that means doing a stakeout to catch a stalker-rapist with his hand in the cookie jar?

Then that’s exactly what I’ll do.

My mom beams, that proud-little-mama look warming her whole face. She cups my cheeks like I’ve just told her I got into Harvard (again), kisses one of them, and says, “I’ll make you some snacks, dear.”

Because naturally, if you’re going to stake out a predator, you shouldn’t do it on an empty stomach.

I head down the hall to change into my official crime-watching uniform—hot-pink Pilates tights, a matching sports bra, and my favorite cropped zip-up.

Comfort is key when you’re preparing for long stretches of moral crisis and potential felony charges.

By the time I get back to the kitchen, my mom’s got half the pantry laid out on the counter.

“Mom,” I say, digging through the tote bag, “I don’t need all this.”

“That’s a protein bar for energy, that one’s a granola bar because they taste better, and the chocolate is for morale,” she says without turning around, still slicing fruit like we’re going on a picnic.

I fish out a sandwich bag of grapes, a single-serving pack of hummus, three kinds of crackers, and... the eight-inch chef’s knife.

I hold it up like it’s radioactive. “What in the name of our goddess, Elle Woods, is this for?”

She doesn’t even blink. “You can never be too careful, dear.”

“Right,” I mutter, sliding the knife back in the bag and wondering when my life started to resemble a deleted scene fromLegally BlondemeetsDexter.

Outside, the streetlights flicker on, casting warm pools of light across the pavement. It’s that dusky hour where everything feels slow and suspended—like the night’s holding its breath, waiting for something to go wrong.

I zip up my jacket, toss the tote over my shoulder, and grab my car keys from the hook by the door.

“You’ll text me when you’re set up?” my mom asks, walking me out.

“Of course,” I say, already bracing for the surveillance-grade check-ins I know are coming.

She hugs me tight, then smooths the side of my hair like she’s trying to imprint calm into me.

“Be safe,” she whispers.

I nod.

Of course, how hard could this be?

Boys do it.

How hard could this be?

Boys do it.

That thought aged like milk.

Turns out, stakeouts are hard—especially when you’ve just dipped the last grape into the final scoop of hummus like a desperate snack goblin.

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