Page 53 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

The trunk lifts, and I nearly cry from relief. I glance around to see if anyone is watching.

With Dexter wiggling like a greased-up piglet in my arms, I fumble for a disposable glove from the emergency kit wedged between jumper cables and cleaning supplies. Slipping it on one-handed is a circus act. But I manage. Sort of. It’s inside out and slightly sticky.

I don’t want to admit why.

I dump the contents of my tote bag onto the trunk floor in one swift motion—a protein bar and a half-eaten sleeve of lemon shortbread cookies.

Dexter sniffs them on his descent into the tote like I’ve just offered him five-star room service.

I hook the bag onto the coat hook behind the passenger seat, and Dexter swings gently like a designer handbag no one would ever approve for courtroom carry.

My hands are shaking. The world feels tilted, off balance—like I’m underwater.

But I can’t stop now.

I lay a giant trash bag across the driver’s seat like I’m prepping for either a paint job or a mental breakdown, then slide behind the wheel. My hand hovers over the ignition.

What if someone saw me?

What if they followed?

What if this is it—my last moment of freedom before it all caves in?

Dexter sneezes and that’s my cue.

I shove the car into drive and floor it, peeling away from the curb like I’m racing toward normal. Toward silence. Toward a future that may or may not exist now.

And in the back seat, my new accomplice swings gently in his tote bag like the world’s fluffiest, least helpful getaway driver.

At least I’m not alone in this.

Even if my partner in crime desecrates bodies and contaminates evidence.

At least I’m not alone.

Isaw everything—every tear, every stab, every breath she didn’t realize might be her last.

I watched from above—four stories up and two decades ahead of her in the art of survival.

She never looked up. Most people don’t. That’s why rooftops are perfect for monsters like me.

She thinks she was alone.

She wasn’t.

She had her bravery, the knife. Then the dog.

But she’s always had me. She just doesn’t know it yet.

The whole thing was messy and unrefined.

Sloppy footwork, too many missed arteries on the first go. She wasted too much energy with all that flailing. If this were a training video, I’d call it “How to Start a Homicide and Still Get Yourself Killed.”

Adrenaline all over the place. No pacing. No strategy.

I give it a six-point-five.

But what she lacked in technique, she made up for in fire.

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