Page 52 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

“I can’t leave you. You’re covered in evidence. You’re practically an accomplice. If anyone ever swabs your paw pads, we’re done for. And I’m too pretty for prison, Dexter. I would not do well there.”

He yawns.

“Right,” I say, scanning the blood-splattered Picasso around us, landing on my abandoned shoe—and the murder weapon.

No. I’m not thinking about that.

“So, we need to go. Now. We need a plan. And then we need to never speak of this again.”

But the silence that follows?

It doesn’t feel like a promise.

It feels like the beginning of something I’ll never be able to outrun.

But I need to try.

My little companion’s snaggletooth is still sticking out like he’s proud of it. He looks at me like he’s just agreed to whatever cover-up plan I’ve concocted.

But the truth is, I have nothing.

Dexter has a collar. He seems well fed, groomed not too long ago. Not that I know much about dogs, but the hair around his face looks intentionally trimmed—neat and tidy.

Someone’s probably looking for him. And if that someone finds him like this? Covered in blood? That would definitely trigger an investigation.

And that’s just not a headline I need right now.

I adjust my grip on the little menace and backtrack toward my car, ducking under every streetlamp like I’m starring in an amateur version ofMission: Impossible—Accomplice Edition.Every passing light feels like a spotlight. Every shadow looks like it might lunge.

Panic, at this point, isn’t just a feeling—it’s my entire personality.

The city is dead quiet at this hour, which should be calming. It’s not. It’s unsettling. New York isn’t supposed to sleep, but tonight? It’s taken a full sedative and left me alone with the aftermath of a very violent decision.

But maybe that will work in my favor.

That place seemed long abandoned. The streets unused and it buys me time.

Enough to change. To gather a plan and come back and do... something to try and save myself from this mess.

But I know what Ishouldhave done.

First, I should’ve kept my hinny at the car and called 911.

But I didn’t do that. I chased after a monster and killed him.

I shouldn’t have left the scene. Staying and calling the authorities would’ve been my best chance at a self-defense case.

But how would I have explained the knife? Following him?

There’s no excuse. Because I followed him meaning to kill him.

And I did.

So now I need to handle this—or my life will be over, just like his.

I reach my car and wave my foot under the trunk sensor, praying it reads my movement through all the blood and desperation.

It does. Praise be.

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