Page 223 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Pulse roaring.

Body discovered in the Hudson.

Confirmed to be “The Houseguest,” now identified as Caleb Thatcher.

Known for raping, torturing, and killing over two dozen women. Police sources suggest vigilante revenge. Possibly a father or brother of one of the victims. Someone who couldn’t wait any longer for justice.

My hands are numb.

My throat is closing but I keep reading.

The details are worse than I remembered?—

His methods. His trophies. The fear he carved into every woman he hunted.

The article ends with a quote from the police commissioner:

“Women across the state will sleep easier tonight, knowing this monster was finally brought to justice.”

I stare at the screen fighting to breathe, because I did that.

Not with a badge or a courtroom.

Not with a confession or a guilty plea.

I ended it.

With a blade and blood.

And the terrifying part that should scare me more than anything else?

I don’t regret it.

Not even a little.

Who's got you smiling like that?" I ask, voice low, casual as Poppy snaps her burner phone shut like it's about to explode. "A boyfriend?"

She’s been passing texts with me—stalker me—for the last thirty minutes.

She freezes. Just a breath. but it’s enough to tighten something in my chest.

“What? No. Not a boyfriend…” she says quickly, fiddling with the corner of a case file like it holds the answers to world peace.

My brow lifts. I cock my head, teasing—but my eyes are locked on her, drinking in every microexpression she can’t hide fast enough.

"Someone you’ve been seeing?" I press, voice still easy but threading the needle closer to where it’ll hurt if I pull too hard.

She hesitates.

Just long enough to stab a fucking knife through me.

Maybe it’s the memory of the almost-kiss hanging between us.

Maybe it’s the thought of her texting someone else, laughing at her screen the way she just did with me.

Either way, she lies.

"Yeah," she says, voice strained. "Kind of. It’s… complicated?"

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