Page 38 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Waking up to wage psychological warfare with a meter maid and a sleeve of multigrain crackers.

Finding Mariela calm—too calm, considering the week she’s had.

The photo on my desk that felt like someone whisperingI see youright against the back of my neck.

My instincts are stirring again. Low. Steady.

That tight pull in my chest that tells me something’s wrong, even when nothing looks it.

So instead of texting back, I press Call.

It rings.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Four.

Each tone echoes a little louder in my ears than the last. She just texted—she should pick up.

Finally, the line connects with a soft click.

“Poppy.”

Her voice is faint, trailing like smoke.

And wrong.

Not frightened or tearful—but slow. Slurred. Empty in a way that has nothing to do with tiredness.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” she says, words a little too smooth. “You believed me when no one else did.”

A warning bell goes off inside me.

“Mari.” My voice is sharper now, laced with panic. “Where are you? What’s going on?”

She doesn’t answer right away. When she does, it’s in a tone I’ll never forget—calm, almost gentle.

“It’s just easier this way,” she murmurs. “At least I get to decide what happens to me.”

No. No, no, no.

“Mari—stop. Please. Just stay on the phone. Talk to me.”

But she’s already slipping away.

“You don’t have to worry anymore, Poppy.”

The silence on the line stretches for a beat that feels like a lifetime.

Then, with a softness that cuts deeper than any scream:

“Goodbye.”

The call ends.

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