Page 43 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

The knife in my hand is heavy. Not just in weight—but in what it means. What it could mean.

Across the alley, shadows swallow him. Travis Gannon. That smug little smile still burned into my vision like an afterimage from staring at the sun too long. Only this time, it’s not the sun.

It’s the devil. And he winked at me.

He would’ve killed her tonight.

He came back to finish what he started. To slither his way into her apartment like the cockroach he is, and the only reason she’s alive is because of me.

Not the cops.

Not the courts.

Not the so-called justice system that’s more interested in being fair for criminals than bringing justice for victims.

And definitely not Detective Brannon, the sentient sock puppet with a badge.

Just like no one stopped the man who hurt my mother.

You do whatever you have to.

Her words come back, soft but ironclad, like they’ve been waiting for this moment to crawl out of the corners of my brain and settle in.

I stare down the alley. He’s gone now. But he was here. Real. Alive.

I grip the handle of the knife tighter. It feels warm now, molded to my palm like it belongs there.

“I don’t want to do this,” I whisper. The words shake, but they don’t waiver.

I don’t want to. God, I don’t.

But he was here. Right here.

And if I let him go tonight, he’ll vanish again. Slip back into the shadows like he always does.

And next time?

Someone else won’t be so lucky.

“I don’t want to kill him,” I say again, barely breathing. But if I don’t... someone else is going to be raped. Maybe killed.

The truth of it lands like ice water in my lungs.

This wasn’t the plan. I was supposed to go to bed with glowy skin and eight hours of sleep. Not a blade and a body count.

I look down at the knife in my hand. At my shaking fingers. At the pink sneakers on my feet and the way my heart is hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to run for the both of us.

This isn’t revenge.

This is prevention.

This is justice, the kind the courtroom couldn’t give Mariela. The kind that slipped through the cracks for my mother. For me.

I steady my breath.

I steady my grip.

And I steady myself for what comes next.

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