Page 41 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

A broken mug on the kitchen tile. A cold half-eaten bagel beside it.

I stand in the center of the room.

This is what she’ll come home to. The aftermath of trying to end her life.

“She can’t come back to this,” I whisper.

Take off my jean jacket, lay it over the back of a chair and call the locksmith. The same one I used the other day and he’s on his way.

I’ll stay and clean while I wait for him.

In the bathroom, I kneel and pull the stopper. The water drains slowly, glugging down the pipes.

In the kitchen, I wrap the broken mug in a towel and toss it. The bagel too. I wipe the counter—not because it’s dirty, but because I need something to do.

In the living room, I straighten the chair. Pick up a fallen cardigan. Align the coffee table.

“She deserves better than this.”

I barely hear my own voice but it feels true because this isn’t just a scene.

It’s her home.

And when she comes back it can’t look like where she almost died. It has to look like where she gets to live.

I don’t realize I’m still trembling until I reach the car.

The street is calm. Same cracked sidewalk. Same flickering streetlamp.

But the air feels different. Like it’s holding its breath.

I toss my jean jacket in the trunk, not caring where it lands.

It’s humid—sticky in that New York way that makes seven p.m. feel like dirty dishwater.

I grab my tote. Still half full of stakeout snacks and guilt.

My fingers brush something cold.

The knife.

That eight-inch chef’s knife my mother slipped into my bag like it was trail mix.

Of course it’s still here.

Of course I forgot.

I shake my head, wrapping my fingers around the handle, intending to put it in the glove box before some random passerby calls in a report of a blonde wielding cutlery in activewear.

But then I hear it.

A metallic clatter. Sharp. Muffled.

Not trash. Not traffic.

Steel on steel.

It came from the alley.

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