Page 299 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

An unholy chariot of domestic bliss.

And there, in the passenger seat, is my other ride-or-die.

My little homicide homie:

Dexter.

He’s perched upright on the armrest with his snaggletooth on proud display, pink bandana crooked around his neck like he just came from brunch with scandalous secrets and a mimosa buzz.

His tail wags so hard when he sees me, his whole booty wriggles out of control.

“My boys,” I whisper, smiling wide.

Declan steps out, something behind his back.

“I have a surprise for you,” he says, voice low and warm.

He pulls it out—a small white paper crane.

The first time he left them for me, he was just a shadow.

Now he’s the one waiting in the light.

I don’t say anything. I just reach into my pocket and place the zip-tie heart in his palm.

He smiles. “Hold that thought.”

He opens the back door, rummages in the floorboard and pulls out a mason jar.

He drops the heart inside and seals it.

“There,” he says, setting it on the dash. “The first of many.”

It’s true. There are more names. More monsters. I’m going to need more jars.

“You’re really okay with this?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I’m okay with anything that involves you.”

My throat tightens. Not with guilt or fear.

Just that strange ache of being seen—and loved—for exactly what I am.

He opens the door and I climb in.

Dexter hops into my lap, tail thumping.

Declan gets behind the wheel, glancing at me like I’m his religion.

“You good?”

I nod. “Better than good. Settled.”

Declan watches me closely. He’s always watching. Not like before—obsessive, shadowed—but with that steady, reverent gaze that saysyou’re safe now. You’re mine now. I’ll carry whatever you can’t.

“What now?” he asks, voice low.

“I’m starving.”

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