Page 215 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

#DextersDarkPassenger

Just thinking about it makes my stomach cramp.

Which is why there’s zero chance I’m staying home waiting for anxiety to eat me alive.

It’s Saturday, and my escape plan is simple: pretend yesterday didn’t happen, glue myself to something semi-normal, and hope if I act like a functional adult long enough, maybe I’ll become one.

The precinct is my best bet.

Surely, even my skull-masked stalker wouldn’t be bold enough to follow me there.

Probably.

Hopefully.

Whatever.

Dexter, of course, has his own plans.

Plans that involve being treated like the spoiled little prince he is.

I dress him in a golf outfit because if I have to suffer through today pretending to be okay, he can suffer through wearing plaid pants and a matching hat.

He shoots me a betrayed look as I tuck tiny doggy sunglasses over his nose.

“You look fabulous,” I tell him, adjusting the beret behind one floppy ear. “Own it.”

Dexter huffs and flounces off toward the door, pants swishing with indignation.

I pack his tote—yes, a tote—complete with gourmet treats, chilled water, and two hand-prepped meals.

At the last second, I hold up two of his favorite crystal dishes.

He taps one with a paw like a judgmental little king.

At least someone here has it together.

Files? Packed.

Coffee? Secured.

Dog? Accessorized within an inch of his life.

My world may be crumbling like a soggy granola bar, but this?

This I can control.

My outfit is pure bubblegum warfare, as Declan once labeled it.

Pink leggings, pink crop top, pink tennies, and oversized white sunglasses.

I crank up theLegally Blondesoundtrack as I slide behind the wheel, the cheerful beat pumping like a lifeline.

If Elle Woods can get into Harvard, I can survive whatever today throws at me.

Probably.

Maybe.

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