Page 242 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

I yank backward, trying to pull free, but he’s faster—grabbing again, his fingers digging in harder this time.

“You’ve always had that look. The kind of girl who pretends to say no.”

Panic ignites.

I twist hard out of his grip and bolt.

My tennies smack against the concrete floor, echoing wildly between the metal shelving. Rows blur past as I tear down the aisle, breath burning in my lungs, legs screaming to go faster.

Behind me, I hear his laugh—low, mocking, the sound of someone who thinks he’s already won.

“Playing hard to get?” he calls. “That’s fine. I like a chase.”

I veer down a side aisle, heart thundering, desperate for something—anything—that looks like a way out.

But he’s faster.

He tackles me from behind, knocking the air from my body. We crash to the floor, the impact rattling my teeth. Pain blossoms sharp and immediate along my hip and shoulder.

Before I can scramble up, his tongue is running up the length of my neck—sloppy, wet, disgusting.

One hand yanks at my top, the delicate fabric tearing easily.

The other hand fumbles clumsily with his belt.

I kick, hard, but it barely slows him down.

“Stop—get off me—STOP!” I scream, thrashing, fighting, nails clawing at any part of him I can reach.

“You’re gonna love this, princess,” he grunts. “You just don’t know it yet.”

No.

I throw my knee up as hard as I can, catching him in the gut.

He gasps, loosening his grip just enough for me to kick again.

I scramble away from him, tripping as I try to get up.

Without thinking, I grab the first thing I see—the compact, sad little pink doggy stroller, still neatly collapsed and tucked against the wall thanks to Declan.

With both hands wrapped firmly around the handle, I swing with everything I have.

It makes a sickening crack when it connects with his temple.

He stumbles backward, slamming into the edge of a table hard enough to send papers and evidence bins flying.

I don’t wait to see if he’s staying down.

I run, breaking hard out of the evidence room door.

I snatch up my purse without breaking stride, heart hammering so loud it drowns out everything else.

I fish my keys out of the bottom of the bag, and both hands slam against the exit door, the bang echoing behind me as I run into the night air that feels too cold against my burning skin.

I don’t stop until I reach my car, my hands fumbling with the keyfob, my breathing wild and uneven.

I hurl myself inside, slam the door, smash the lock button—all in one frantic motion that leaves me gasping like a fish yanked from water.

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