Page 59 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

“I think I know a place I can get rid of these,” I mutter, knotting the plastic tight.

Dexter watches me from his tote, still panting happily like this has all been the best game of his life. His white fur is still splotched pink-red in places, and that snaggletooth juts out proudly, like he won a fight he never entered.

“Sorry, buddy,” I say, unclipping his little black collar and dropping it and the soiled tote into a separate evidence bag. “You’re evidence now.”

I grab a stack of yellow sticky notes from the wall calendar and start tagging anything I touched like it’s a crime scene—because, well, it is.

Door handle.

Coat hook.

Light switch.

Everything I touched gets a neon badge of shame, a silent little “clean me later” warning for future me.

Dexter sits happily under my arm—having the time of his life—and I carry him up the stairs to the primary bathroom.

The spa tub is deep enough to keep one blood-soaked dog contained while I pull off the worst cleanup of my life. I plop him in. He yips and turns in a circle a few times, I suppose happy to be free of his tote-bag prison.

He sits, little front paws together like a royal prince.

“Don’t give me that look,” I mutter, voice brittle as I turn the water on full blast. “You’re the one who body-surfed through a pool of blood like it was a Slip ’N Slide.”

Steam rises fast, curling up the mirrors and fogging over the version of me I no longer recognize.

I step into the water first.

It scalds so perfectly.

I scrub until my skin turns blotchy and raw, using every soap, scrub, exfoliant, and miracle potion I own. Wash. Rinse. Scrubagain. Trying to erase his blood, my guilt, the echo of the knife in my hand—I go at it like absolution comes with a loofah.

I try not to cry.

I do anyway.

Quiet sobs that shake in my ribs but never reach my throat. They stay there, lodged behind my sternum like all the other things I’m trying not to say. Like the fact that I killed a man. Like the fact that I don’t regret it.

When I finally breathe again, I reach for the dog.

“Okay, your turn, little buddy,” I whisper, hoisting him carefully into the rising water.

He doesn’t fight me. Just sits in the tub with mild offense, like he expected lavender bubbles and a massage. I lather him up with shampoo that smells like cucumber and lilies, working the suds deep into his fur.

The water turns pink.

And... when I rinse him, I gasp because now he’s pink.

Head to tail.

A bubblegum-dipped murder witness.

“No, no, no, no, no—” I wash. Again. Working the lather in better this time. “You’re not supposed to look like you were tie-dyed in blood.”

He shakes, sending flecks of pink-tinted water all over the bathroom tile.

My panic spikes.

I turn toward the mirror and lift a section of my hair.

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