Page 31 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

The dash clock reads 4:02 a.m.

Three more hours.

I can do this.

Probably.

Maybe.

The street is dead quiet. My eyes gritty, my legs are asleep and my bladder is screaming.

I’ll close my eyes for one second.

Just one second.

The knock on my window nearly sends my soul into orbit.

I jolt upright with a scream so sharp it startles me.

My elbow hits the door, my knee bangs the wheel, and I blindly grab the first thing I can?—

An opened pack of multigrain crackers.

I throw them with the energy of a woman who’s had too many shadow prince updates and not enough sleep.

They explode across my dash, lap, and dignity.

These crumbs will haunt me.

I blink to clear the surreal transition from sleep to panicked wake. A parking enforcement officer stares through the glass.

Early forties. Chewing her gum with her whole jaw. Existential crisis energy.

“You can’t sleep here, hon.”

Ma’am, I am one granola bar and a legal loophole away from total collapse.

I roll the window down a sliver. “Not sleeping. Just… conducting neighborhood surveillance.”

She raises an eyebrow. “I don’t care.”

I point to my tote. “I’m a lawyer.”

She pops her gum. “I still don’t care.”

Well.

Who tinkled in her Lucky Charms?

She walks off without another word, her reflective vest swaying like a judgmental highlighter. I slump back—then bolt upright as panic socks me in the sternum.

Mariela.

Sprinkle-covered snickerdoodles! I fell asleep.

What if something happened? What if I missed it?

Nope. No spiraling.

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