Page 51 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

I’m running now. Bloodied. One shoe missing. Chasing a murder witness in shame-laced circles around a dilapidated building.

My canine co-conspirator—by proximity, not choice—is a streak of white-and-red lightning, darting between trash piles like it’s his personal playground.

I lunge—and slip.

Catch myself on cracked concrete. My palm hits a puddle and blood squelches beneath it.

“Oh, that’s gross.”

I peel my hand back, leaving a full, perfect print.

A horror-movie poster.

“Great,” I mutter. “Add it to the forensic scrapbook.”

I’m covered. Arms streaked, wrists soaked. Drying on my cheek and—oh no.

There’s even more blood in my hair.

I feel the stickiness. The metallic tang clinging to my waves.

“Oh God,” I breathe. “I’m molting. A molting murderer leaving evidence everywhere.”

The pup barrels through another puddle, feet skidding until he slides and flops onto his side.

I gasp—but of course he’s fine.

He wriggles, tail wagging, tongue out, and eyes bright.

Now he looks like a crime scene stuffed animal.

Turns his head like he’s posing for a mugshot.

Yes, Officer, I saw everything. Also, I licked it.

When I finally scoop him up, he wriggles once, then settles in my arms like a hot mess of violence and fluff.

Then the little beast licks my nose. Cheerfully.

Like I just saved him from a bath... and not murdered a man a few feet away.

“Dexter,” I mutter, reading the name off his studded black leather collar, “you are a war criminal.”

He pants, smug and proud.

And that’s when it hits me.

The smell. The blood. The silence. The fact that we’re still standing in a murder scene.

I slowly turn in a circle, Dexter cradled against my ribs like a very judgmental, panting baby.

The floor is streaked with red. My footprints—bare, because of course I lost a shoe during my post-homicide cardio—trailfrom one end of the room to the other. There’s a handprint on the concrete. My DNA. My sweat. My vomit.

The blood isn’t just on me—it’s everywhere. I’ve contaminated everything. Bled and cried and spit and shed in every direction. This whole building might as well be a forensic wonderland. A carnival of conviction.

“Oh, cheese and crackers, Dexter,” I whisper as a fresh wave of panic starts to rise. “We’re going to jail forever.”

I stare down at the tiny, now-pink-dappled dog in my arms.

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