Page 135 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Just a door kicked in, a scream that never finishes, and the sound of my Sunshine being snuffed out like a goddamn candle.

I whip around a corner so fast the tires scream in protest. A mailbox explodes in my rearview as I glance at the feed—and there he is.

He’s come back.

Pulling up slow. Parking a few houses down. That predatory creep of a man who already got her alone once has the audacity to roll back up.

Like he’s not a fucking monster walking on borrowed time.

The feed jumps. He gets out.

He slings a small backpack over his shoulders and snaps a belt around his waist.

My breath stops. My entire body locks up like I’ve been shot.

That’s gear.

That’s duct tape and zip ties and a second knife. That’s chloroform and gloves.

That’s a plan.

I can’t fucking lose her.

She’s the only speck of light in my dark world, and she doesn’t even know it yet. I haven’t been able to tell her. To show her.

And I may not get the fucking chance.

A sound tears from my throat like it’s being ripped out by claws, and I slam my fists into the steering wheel again and again and again.

“FUCK!”

“FUCK!”

“FUCK!”

Everything inside me fractures—rage detonating at the center of my chest—but underneath the heat, under the white-hot bloodlust, there’s something colder.

Something worse.

Terror.

Pure, unfiltered terror.

The kind that makes your vision go black around the edges. The kind that wraps around your spine and tells you:You’re too far. You’ll be too late.

Because what if I am?

What if he walks through that door?

What if she freezes?

What if all I do is watch it happen on this fucking screen?

I’ve been watching her for months—breathing her in through pixels and speakers and quiet moments no one else noticed—and now it might end with me watching her die.

Because I wasn’t fast enough.

Because I didn’t notice him in time. And now he’s back. And she’s inside. Alone.

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