Page 192 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Then I see another name I recognize.

Nathaniel Mercer.

And the room feels colder.

He’s what you might call a pattern—a man whose name shows up too often in police reports and never on a sentencing sheet. Always accused. Never convicted. Charges vanish like spilled ink. Victims back out. Files go quiet.

But I remember him.

Last year, he was picked up on suspicion of drugging a woman with a homemade sedative. She came to early. Managed to get out. He claimed it was a misunderstanding.

It always is.

Judge Maxwell enters, begins hearings and he’s first up.

Nathaniel steps up to the defense table now, clean-shaven, sharply dressed, hands folded like he’s a polite citizen with a parking ticket. But I’ve seen what he leaves behind.

Lewis is still talking to herself, trying to organize her thoughts.

And I... start organizing something else.

Iwonder what it would take.

To stop someone like him.

Permanently.

Not in the heat of panic.

Not in a blur of blood and screaming and survival.

But a plan. A process. A choice.

What if I did that?

What if I chose someone like him—on purpose?

Not a monster in the moment. A monster by design.

I could follow him and learn his habits. The places he feels safest. His patterns. His tells.

Wait until he’s alone.

Lure him with a gentle conversation. A smile. A drink. With a little something extra, just enough to make him woozy.

I could take him somewhere quiet.

Empty.

Echoes don’t carry in certain rooms—not if you choose carefully. Vacant construction homes. A rental listing no one’s shown in weeks.

This time, I’d be prepared.

Not running. Not flailing in the dark. Not fighting for myself.

This would be for them: his victims.

I’d bring gloves. A drop cloth. Industrial-strength bleach in a labeled bottle.

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