Page 40 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

“Yes. I’m her attorney. And her friend.” My voice breaks. “I called 911.”

He nods, tension softening. “She’s breathing. Vitals low but stable.”

I cover my mouth, knees buckling. He catches me.

“She’s lucky,” he says quietly. “Ten more minutes . . .”

I nod, squeezing my eyes shut as sobs shake through me.

Pressing my fingers to my temples, I breathe hard, searching for solid ground.

They wheel her toward the ambulance, and I watch like my soul is tethered to that stretcher.

“Is she going to wake up?” I ask, voice hollow.

“She will. It’ll take a few hours to metabolize, but she’s going to be okay.”

I nod, though nothing feels okay. Not her pale face. Not the way she looks like a ghost wrapped in blankets.

The doors close and the lights spin wildly as the ambulance pulls away.

My hands still tremble, jacket crooked off one shoulder, bodysuit soaked with sweat.

Two officers linger nearby and one approaches, eyeing me.

“She yours?”

“She’s my client.” My voice is hoarse. “What do you need?”

He gestures toward the building. “We’ve started the incident report. There were empty medicine bottles on the counter but no note.”

“She called me,” I say quietly, arms crossed. “She said goodbye. She sounded… scared, but calm.”

The officer nods grimly. “You saved her life.”

No. That’s not what it feels like.

I glance at the building as the streetlamps flicker on.

“I didn’t do enough to keep her safe,” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps writing his report.

The street is still with only the hum of traffic and the dull ache in my chest.

I gave my statement. Signed where they asked.

Now I stand at the bottom of the stairwell, staring up at her apartment door, slightly open.

The frame is splintered. Latch blown out.

They must’ve kicked it in.

Inside, it’s the kind of quiet that feels like a sound.

The tub is still full.

Pill bottles—cheap, store-brand painkillers. One empty. One overturned, contents scattered like confetti no one wanted.

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