Page 94 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

And then there it is.

04:07 a.m.

A fire report. One single entry.

Caller: anonymous male, said he was driving a delivery route and spotted flames from the freeway. Still in his truck. No specific address. Just a general location.

Dispatch sent fire and rescue to investigate.

That’s it.

No follow-up.

No crime scene photos.

No homicide unit called in.

No body. No blood. Nothing.

I sit back slowly, screen glow burning into my eyes.

There should have been a body.

I left him there. Pale. Lifeless. Still.

I flip tabs and pull up a map, cursor hovering with dread I can feel in my throat.

The pin drops.

Right there. Just outside city limits.

The warehouse.

The one with the cracked cement, the stack of tires I leaned against trying not to pass out.

The one I killed him in.

The back of my throat burns. I slam the laptop shut and hold it against my chest like a security blanket. Like the plastic shell can shield me from the fact that someone else knew I was there.

My heart slams against my ribs, like it’s trying to signal danger in Morse code.

I need to go home.

I need to get inside, bolt every lock, and bury myself under a blanket of denial and one very judgmental dog.

Home is where Dexter is.

Home is where I pretend everything is fine.

Everything is safe.

The drive is a blur.

My fingers cramp around the steering wheel, my thoughts buzzing like a hive full of angry bees. By the time I pull the rental into the drive, I’m parked practically sideways—way too close to the side entrance—but I don’t care.

I slide the key into the lock with shaking hands, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the bolt clicking open. The second I’m inside, I throw the deadbolt, twist the extra security latch, and type in the alarm code so fast I nearly mess it up twice.

Poor Dexter is staring at me like I’ve fully lost it. And maybe I have.

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