Page 249 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Stops behind her shoe.

She doesn’t look at it.

Keeps her eyes fixed on Graham.

The man she’s killing to take back what he tried to take from her.

“I’ve thought about it, you know,” she murmurs.

Her voice is so quiet I almost miss it.

“Killing.”

I keep my eyes on her, but I don’t answer.

She’s not talking to me. Not really.

“The other day, in court. A rapist was back again. A fresh victim.”

She swallows.

“I sat there watching him talk to the judge about what an upstanding citizen he is. And I pictured it. Killing him. Not out of rage—just to . . . correct the imbalance.”

She looks up at me.

And for the first time since she walked into this place, her expression looks vulnerable.

“Why do you still want me . . . after this?”

There is zero hesitation in my answer.

“It was always going to be you after this.”

She holds my gaze for a beat.

And something in her—fractures.

Not in a way that breaks her.

In a way that frees her.

Then the last breath rattles out of Graham’s chest, and there’s nothing left but meat and silence.

She looks at him a moment, realizing his life is gone. It’s hers now.

And says, without emotion,

“Hm. Bled to death.”

The silence wraps around me like a warm, weighted blanket, tucking me into a place I’ve never been—still, heavy, peaceful.

Then the other side of me—the shrieking, panicked side that still pretends she’s normal—wakes up and starts screaming.

What have you done?

The first breath feels wrong.

My chest rises and falls like there’s a cinder block on it, pressing down, daring me to crumble.

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