Page 61 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

It takes hours.

Cleaning the car, bagging contaminated textiles, adding another bulk case of pink disposable gloves to my Amazon cart.

I find it soothing though. The bagging. The methodical calming that takes over my mind and hushes my thoughts.

There was a brief moment of that when–you know. When Travis Gannon wasno longer with us.

For a brief moment, it was quiet. Peaceful, almost.

Inside goes much faster, and by the time I toss the last sticky note and recheck every surface, it’s past four in the morning.

I sag against the kitchen counter, the silence thick around me.

And then... a scratch.

Soft. Persistent. From behind the laundry-room door.

I wince. “Oh, Dexter.”

I pull the door open, and there he is—dry now, fluff re-puffed, looking mildly offended that I forgot him for longer than five minutes.

He struts out like a tiny aristocrat returning from a spa treatment, pausing at the back door with a sigh that’s ninety percent judgment.

Then he looks over his shoulder.

Full dramatic pause.

Snaggletooth glinting in the moonlight like a weapon.

He huffs.

“Well, excuse me, Mr. Murder Accomplice.” And I open the door for him.

He snorts—literally snorts—and trots outside to a small patch of grass that runs alongside my brownstone.

With my arms crossed, I shift back and forth on my feet, not liking feeling so exposed out here.

Like the ghost of Travis Gannon will swoop in, leading a barrage of police to my doorstep.

In the distance, the faint sound of a siren sends a cascade of chills across my body. The fine hairs on the back of my neck stand to absolute attention.

“Oh, my daisy dukes. They’re coming for me already.”

My breathing rises, my pulse spikes, the siren gets louder and louder still. I release a pent-up sigh when I hear it keep driving by my street and fades into the distance.

Phew. Safe a little longer.

I trudge upstairs, limbs heavy. My soul, heavier.

My silk nightie slips over my head like a whisper—soft, pale pink, ironically the exact shade of innocence I just murdered tonight.

In my room, I grab an old towel from the linen closet and lay it on the floor by the nightstand with finality.

“No dogs on the bed,” I declare to my new little roommate.

Dexter sits at the edge of the threshold, tail wagging just enough to be passive-aggressive.

I climb under my down comforter, wrap myself in its warmth like it might hold me together—but it doesn’t.

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