Page 58 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Please.

If I do my job—and I always do—Gannon will rot quietly in the corner of a landfill like the trash he is.

Tonight wasn’t just about cleaning up after her.

It wasn’t just about wrapping bones in plastic or sweeping away the evidence of her first kill.

It was about something far greater.

A beginning. A shift.

A quiet, bloody rite of passage.

She stepped into my world without even realizing it, and for the first time, I get to step out of the shadows.

She doesn’t know it yet—not really—but we’re not on opposite ends of this twisted story.

We’re spiraling closer to the same inevitable truth.

Two storms circling the same dark center.

And now that blood has been spilled?—

now that she’s felt what it means to take control in the rawest, most permanent way?—

I finally get to stop watching from rooftops and grainy security feeds and start moving toward her.

Closer to her breath.

Closer to her fear.

Closer tous.

She’ll see me soon.

And when she does, she won’t run.

Not from me.

Not from herself.

Every case I’ve ever tried runs through my head like a reel of mistakes.

What they missed.

What got them caught.

What I picked apart in court like a vulture at a crime-scene buffet.

I’m not making those mistakes.

My car is hidden from sight in the detached garage behind my brownstone. If anyone puts a call out for a vehicle matching its description, I’m banking on “out of sight, out of mind.”

Inside, first things first: containment.

Dexter, still secure in his tote, hangs from the coatrack looking like a very murderous purse.

Thank goodness I keep a box of pink disposable gloves in my mudroom. With a fresh pair, I strip right here. The black bodysuit and shoes go into a trash bag. New gloves. Then double-bagged. And new gloves again.

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