Page 1 of Death, Interrupted

Chapter 1

Sly

The thing about not getting caught while on a killing spree is that you have to make it look like an accident, something tragic but believable enough that people shake their heads and mutter “poor guy” instead of “someone definitely murdered him.” That hadn’t exactly been my grand plan from the start. I was initially thinking knives, blood, and dramatic showdowns, but after the very first guy on my kill list went down in what looked like a complete freak accident, it only felt natural to keep going with the theme.

Was it genius? Of course. Did I deserve full credit? Absolutely. I mean, come on. I was the killer in this story. I got to decide how things were told, how they’re remembered, and how they ended. So if you’re sitting there judging me, please stop. I’m not good with being judged.

After that first so-called accident, it just became a thing. Every man on my kill list was going to meet his fate in the form of some unfortunate mishap that, at least on paper, he had brought on himself. Chase, for example, supposedly tripped over his own gym bag and cracked his skull open on the edge of the countertop. In reality, I had given him what you could call a “gentle” shove when he came charging at me like some enraged linebacker trying to wrestle my knife away. Okay, fine. If I’m being honest, gentle is a stretch. It was a full-force push with every ounce of intent behind it, and I hadn’t actually meant for him to bleed out so quickly. It sucked, really, because I’d wanted to savor that moment a little longer, to play with him the way he used to play with me when we were both younger, but I didn’t get that chance.

Back in middle school, Chase had a hobby, and that hobby was me. He’d beat me until I bled and then spin whatever story he needed to make every adult in the vicinity believe I had started it, and he was just nobly defending himself. He was a master manipulator, a golden boy with stupiddimples, and I was the troublemaker who couldn’t keep his fists to himself. Or at least that’s how the adults saw it.

Now you’re probably thinking,wow, all of this over something that happened sixteen years ago. And to that, my new and lovely friend who’s asking very polite and reasonable questions, I say: hell fucking yes. Because it didn’t end in middle school. It never ended—not until we were the ripe age of twenty-two and I was done being everyone’s punching bag. Chase and the rest of the idiots on my kill list spent years grinding me down, physically and mentally, like it was their side hustle, and eventually I decided that my full-time job was going to be payback.

“Gee, Sly, did you ever think about asking for help?” No, asshole, I didn’t. From the very first day they used me as their chew toy, all I could think about was making them pay. Revenge was the long game, and I played it with focus and flair. Fine, maybe I did ask for help once or twice, but every time I got brushed off or ignored, the urge to one day go full John Wick on these bastards only grew stronger.

…Sorry for calling you an asshole.

My therapist says I have “major” anger issues, which is a clinical way of saying I’m pissed off 90 percent of the time. He doesn’t know about the killing spree, obviously. If he did, he’d have to make a phone call, and that would ruin all the fun. Dr. Lanzer is a decent guy, but let’s be real, no therapist is going toshrug and say “good for you” if their client admits to serial murder. So I keep that part to myself. I’m not dumb. Psycho, yes, but not dumb.

And, let’s face it, at least I’m a hot psycho. Tall but not freakishly tall. Around six feet, six-one if you count my boots. Dark brown curls that fall into the perfect 2C wave pattern that I happen to enjoy running my own hands through whenever I need a quick pick-me-up. Playing with my hair is almost like foreplay. My eyes are dark blue. And, no, not some poetic ocean-blue or starry-night-blue. They’re just dark blue. See? I can be modest. And my face? Let’s just say I’ve been compared to models more than once, and it wasn’t an exaggeration. Women used to throw themselves at me until I decided I didn’t feel like showing my face anymore.

See, fame came knocking the second my faceless gaming videos blew up, and while everyone else was scrambling to plaster their real faces all over the internet, I thought: nah. I know how many psychos are out there. I might be one, but I’m not looking to get stalked by people even crazier than me. So I kept myself hidden, faceless and anonymous, and it turned out to be a brilliant decision once I added murder to my hobbies.

Of course, none of that compares to my sweet April. April is my BMW S1000RR, pitch-black and gorgeous, sleek and that low purr that makes my whole bodyshiver. When I first bought her, I tried to play it cool, pretending she was just a bike, but the second I sat on her seat and felt that vibration under me, it was game over. We’ve been inseparable ever since. I take her out daily, whether I have somewhere to go or not, and yes, I talk to her, and yes, sometimes I kiss her.

Don’t look at me like that. Everyone has their weird attachments.

So there I was, flying down the highway with April, belting out Natasha Bedingfield’s “Unwritten” at the top of my lungs, which, by the way, was one of her favorite songs. She glided smoother when I sang it.

Next stop: Garrett’s apartment, number five on the list.

Second to last asshole I had to take down before my revenge killing spree was over.

At a red light, I pressed my thighs tight around April’s body, rubbed her tank, and whispered, “You’ll have to wait downstairs while I handle business, baby. It won’t take long.” She gave a little motor hiccup that sounded suspiciously like a groan of protest, and I had to soothe her like the loyal partner she is. “I know, baby girl. I hate being away from you too. But we’ll take the long way home.”

When I reached Garrett’s apartment complex, I parked April carefully, kissed her goodbye—stop laughing, you know you’ve done worse—and headed inside. Smooth entry, no obstacles, and closed doors.

It all went too smoothly, so I expected to be stopped by something or someone.

Like I had smelled it, a voice called out through the lobby.

“Excuse me, sir?”

I turned and spotted trouble in the form of an elderly woman with a cane. She shuffled toward me, her face the perfect mix of polite helplessness and the kind of judgment only old people can weaponize.

“Yes, ma’am?” I asked.

“Would you mind calling the elevator? My legs aren’t what they used to be.”

I pressed the button, still helmeted, smiling under the visor, though she couldn’t see it.

“That’s a nice helmet,” she said.

“Thanks,” I replied. “That’s a nice cane.”

Her lips twitched. “It’s a necessity. Unlike wearing a helmet indoors.”

Excuse me?