Page 301 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Proof that sometimes the ugliest things we do can leave something beautiful behind.

I wipe a tear as I step into the hallway, breathing deep.

Walking to the parking deck, every step reaffirms I’ve made the right choices.

A bit unorthodox? Yes.

Slightly illegal? I plead the Fifth.

Worth it? Abso-stinkin’-lutely.

The elevator dings and spills me into the parking garage.

I step out—still reeling from baby snuggles—when everything inside me slows.

The air thickens. Heavy, like a held breath and I know I’m not alone.

A shiver crawls down my spine. The hairs on my neck rise.

Every instinct sharpens to a blade’s edge:Run.

I keep walking, careful not to rush.

My hand tightens on my bag strap, knuckles white, but I stay composed.

Just a woman looking for her car.

My eyes scan every corner. Every shadow.

Up ahead, a flicker behind a concrete pillar—barely a whisper of movement—but it lights my nerves on fire.

My heartbeat stutters. So do my steps.

I double back a few times, eyes sharp, and breath ragged.

At the stairwell door, I grip the handle in one smooth, unhurried motion.

I slip inside—and bolt down the stairs.

Halfway down, the door above explodes open with a crash.

Adrenaline floods my veins.

I don’t look back. I grip the rail, bag strap digging into my shoulder as my flats pound the steps.

Footsteps follow. Steady. Measured.

Each one echoes like a gunshot.

My lungs burn. My heart slams.

The dim lighting stretches every shadow.

Boots strike concrete. Closer.

Panic flares. I focus on the door.

Just as I reach for it?—

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