Page 20 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

My mother—my soft-spoken, book-reading, cardigan-wearing, cross-stitching mother—is a killer.

Not theoretically. Notcould’ve.

Literally.

She killed Colton Rhodes.

I found the death notice after midnight, in my pajamas, lying in bed. I started with the usual rabbit holes—criminal databases, court records, Google with too many quotation marks.

At first, nothing.

Then I found it.

Colton Rhodes. Deceased.

Throat slit.

Found in his apartment after neighbors complained about the smell.

No big investigation. No media circus. No DA outrage. He lived in East Flatbush, where most murders get chalked up to gang activity and quietly disappear.

But this wasn’t random.

He was bound—tied so he couldn’t fight back.

Multiple stab wounds. Deliberate and fueled by fury.

Whoever did it wanted him to feel it.

Brushing my hair, it still feels surreal.

My mother—who made vanilla ice cream yesterday and served me pie with a hurricane-calming smile—killed a man.

And got away with it.

What the fiddlesticks?

The thought’s taken up full-time residence in my skull, rearranging mental furniture while I try to focus.

Spoiler: I can’t.

Which is probably why I’m up too early for a sane person.

I reach for my deep-pink sheath dress—the one that fits like a glove and says,I’m the whole package.

I add heels, a gold-buckled belt, and my signature scent—sugared citrus and quiet devastation.

My coffee timer beeps as I finish my liner and my brownstone fills with the smell of dark roast and cinnamon. I pour a mug, add sugar, syrup, creamer.

I should be panicking, but I’m not.

I’m steady.

The prosecutor in me replays the crime, thinking through how she would have done it.

Did she drug him? Catch him sleeping? Knock him out?

Then, what would her defense be?

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