Page 125 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Not even afraid.

What settles over me is something far worse.

Something colder than rage.

Something older than fear.

A silence so sharp it hums beneath my skin.

Because someone just stepped into her house.

Into the one place in this godforsaken world that still feels pure—hers.

Mine.

They left a knife and rope.

They came with intent.

And there’s only one ending for people like that.

The kind they don’t walk away from.

I watch him leave.

Just like that—slips out the same door he crept in through, a smug little ghost with rope under one cushion and a hunting knife under the other. Slips away before she even gets back.

Poppy strolls in a minute later, arms full of a fluffy, distracting tyrant.

She has no fucking idea.

I flip to the outside camera, jaw tight, skin humming with something sharp and ancient. A car rolls by—slow. Not neighborhood slow. Suspiciously invested slow.

I know this neighborhood. I’ve walked it. Driven it. I know every car that belongs here. That one doesn’t.

So, I rewind.

Five minutes earlier, it passes again.

Fifteen minutes before that—again.

I keep scrubbing backward, bile rising with every loop.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The pattern is clear now, spelled out in tire tread and habit.

“This asshole is staking her out.”

It slips from my mouth before I can stop it, quiet and low and vibrating with something dangerous.

He’s not winging this.

He’s got rhythm and timing. The slow build of someone who knows how to hunt.

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