Page 95 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

My hand hovers over the keypad, still trembling.

Deep breath. Just breathe.

But then—something shifts. An eerie sensation rolls over me like a chill crawling up my spine. The air is different. Still, but wrong.

I turn—and stop cold.

There, on the kitchen counter, sits a small pink box.

Perfectly square. Perfectly centered.

And perfectly wrong.

I can’t describe the kind of fear that runs through me—like chains of ice slithering through every vein. It’s not panic. Panic is loud. This is silent. Cold. Surgical.

Like standing on train tracks and hearing the whistle but not being able to move.

I look around my home, not daring to step forward.

“Hello?” I call out, like the stalker is going to pop up from the pantry and shoutSurprise!like it’s a birthday party.

Dexter trots over, tongue lolling, tail wagging so fiercely his entire butt does a figure eight.

Betrayal. Utter betrayal.

“Seriously?” I whisper, crouching to scoop him up. “You had one job, Dexter. Bark. Growl. Pee on something threatening. Anything.”

He wags harder. Licks my face like I’m overreacting.

Someone was in my house.

Someone bypassed my alarm system, left a gift on my counter, and vanished without a trace.

My brain kicks into lawyer mode: gloves, photos, documentation. I can’t exactly call this in—how do you report a stalker who helped you cover up a murder?

They could have recorded me. Kept evidence. Heck, they might’ve grabbed the tote bag I lost. Reporting them would be reporting myself.

But I still need to be smart. If that’s even possible now.

I grab a pair of gloves from under the sink and my phone from my purse, snapping photos from every angle. The box is pale pink. No markings and no note.

Of course it’s pink. It’s taunting me.

With my heart pounding in my ears, I slowly lift the lid.

Inside is a cheap, basic flip phone—the kind you buy at a gas station at two a.m. when you're making bad decisions with cash in hand.

The second my gloved fingers brush it, the screen lights up.

I jump—actually jump—so hard I slam my elbow into the counter. A spoon clatters to the floor, and I jump again.

The phone buzzes once.

New Message:

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Don’t ignore me.

Sleep did not happen.

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