Page 293 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

I guide him in like a dutiful little nurse.

Pull the tarp over him and slam the hatch shut.

“Easy peasy.” I wipe my hands together.

The drive to St. Pete’s feels surreal.

I keep glancing in the rearview mirror like he’s going to Houdini his way out of the trunk.

But he’s out cold. Snoring like a chainsaw under a tarp.

The hospital looms ahead, abandoned on this side due to renovation. In a few weeks, this whole wing will be demolished.

Poetic, really.

The same place where I was dragged out, trembling and terrified.

And now I'm dragging him in.

Full circle.

I pull into the narrow service entrance, headlights off.

My supplies are exactly where I left them: the maintenance stretcher, the heavy-duty locks, the tarps in Room 402.

It takes more upper body strength than I want to admit, wrestling his dead weight onto the stretcher.

He slumps sideways, nearly sliding off, and I hiss, yanking him upright.

I over-correct, and his head bangs the side of the car with a deep thunk. “Oopsie! Sorry.”

I heave him in place. "You're heavier than you look, you bag of judicial garbage," I mutter, tightening the straps across his chest.

I don’t rush. I savor it.

Every click of a buckle and every tug of a restraint.

The elevator creaks as it climbs.

I’m half convinced it’s going to drop us both, but fate isn’t that merciful.

The lights on the fourth floor are dead.

Only the exit signs glow, bleeding red.

Room 402 waits like an open mouth.

I wrestle the stretcher inside and kick the door shut.

The tarps crinkle. The metal table gleams. The smell of bleach bites—freshly cleaned, courtesy of yours truly.

A crime scene no one will ever see.

After changing, I secure him to the table, locking down his wrists and ankles with zip ties.

Pink… obviously.

A second injection, this one from a different syringe, will keep him just the way I want him.

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