Page 122 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

It’s almost charming.

Most people relax with reruns or something trashy and overhyped, but not me. I prefer the real thing. No laugh tracks. No actors. No commercial breaks. Just her.

Poppy.

Unfiltered. Unaware. And mine.

It was honestly adorable—how she thought changing the locks and resetting the security system would protect her. Like she’s starring in her own little home-makeover montage.

It took me five minutes.

New keypad, fresh deadbolts, some overpriced little cameras she bought off one of those influencer ads. I barely broke a sweat.

I scan the grid, checking each room while I take a pull from the amber bottle. She’s not in the kitchen. Not in the bathroom. Not in the bedroom yet, either.

Huh.

Shoes are off and keys are on the hook. But hmm… her slippers are still there.

That’s not right.

She always wears those fuzzy slippers the second she walks in.

Her routine is one of my favorite things about her—it’s predictable, soothing. Like a bedtime story. Slippers, hair clip, wine. Maybe a cookie if it’s been a rough day. And it’s always been a rough day lately.

But tonight... something’s off.

Dexter trots across one screen, his little snaggletooth bouncing with each step as he moves from the living room to the hallway. Probably gearing up to demand more dinner he won’t eat.

Little fucker’s staged a hunger strike against the kibble she picked up.

He pisses me off.

She doesn’t need more chaos.

Not now. She’s under enough pressure already. From work. From the cops. From that fucking idiot she works with.

I sit back and keep scanning, frustrated I missed the moment she got home, but I had other errands to run. Priorities.

Like paying a visit to the city crime lab.

Their security is trash, by the way. You’d think a place responsible for testing evidence in active criminal investigations would have more than one camera facing a door that doesn’t even latch properly.

But no.

One step stool, two gloves, and a little diluted solution later—and the blood samples collected from her sweet little slaughterhouse were officially compromised. No DNA. No ability to identify a person.

No one connects her to it or asks questions she shouldn’t have to answer.

I did that for her.

I’m making sure she doesn’t go down for saving herself. For surviving. For doing what needed to be done when no one else gave a damn.

She hasn’t found out yet, but her victim has finally been reported missing.

Apparently even a soul as blackened as his managed to have someone who noticed when he stopped showing up.

Surprising, really.

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