Page 142 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Then I let go.

His hand flops, then settles.

It scares the piddle out of me and I jump back. “Holy guacamole.”

My hand slaps to my chest, like I can hold my heart in place by force.

My breath comes in fluttery bursts.

Dexter lets out a single bark likeMa’am, control yourself.

I step back and immediately slip on the blood. My foot skids—I do a not-so-graceful hop to stay upright.

“Okay,” I whisper, hand still pressed to my sternum. “Okay. That’s done.”

But it’s not.

Because I still have a body to deal with.

Mysecondbody.

There’s a knife on the driveway.Myknife.

It catches the light like it wants to be noticed. Like it’s proud.

I walk over and pick it up with blood-wet fingers. The grip sticky. The blade warm.

I stare down at what I did.

Another slit throat. Multiple stab wounds. A full-on frenzy.

I have an M.O.

A pattern.

I’m one body away from joining the exclusive club of official serial killers.

One more.

Three murders with a cooling-off period and a recurring signature, and you get your own Wikipedia page.

My stomach turns.

No—revolts.

I barely make it to the bushes before I hurl everything into the hydrangeas. Coffee, panic, two regrettable spoonfuls of peanut butter… all of it.

Dexter lets out a low growl at my side, like he’s trying to be supportive but would really prefer I not vomit directly onhispee bush.

I wipe my mouth on my sleeve like a feral child and stagger toward the door, willing my legs to hold me up.

The air feels different.

Still. Too still.

I pause, frowning as I scan the street. I haven’t seen a car in ten minutes. No jogger. No dog walker. Not even that guy who speedwalks with ankle weights and sass.

Dexter stiffens. One short bark—then silence.