Page 6 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

I scroll fast. Exhibit 12-C should be here. I remember uploading it.

I check again.

Nothing.

“No need to panic,” I murmur to myself. “We are composed. Capable. We are—oh, sweet buttermilk biscuits, where is it?”

“It’s not here,” the defense says, smug. “Due process wasn’t followed. It’s inadmissible.”

My stomach drops.

“It shows everything,” I argue.

Judge Carter doesn’t blink. “Then you should’ve logged it. Unless you have something else, it stays out.”

The defense pounces. “Her whole case rides on that footage. Without it, all she has is a lineup ID and theatrics.”

Carter presses his palms to the desk. “The burden of proof isn’t a suggestion. It’s the law.”

My throat tightens with fury and sharp self-reproach.

“Back to court, Prosecutor,” he says. And that’s that.

Travis is already being led back in, smirking like someone just handed him the keys to the city. I try to reach Mariela—eye contact, anything—but the moment slips past, fast and brutal.

Judge Carter takes the bench. “Due to a critical evidentiary failure,” he announces, voice like a blade, “the court has no choice but to dismiss Exhibit 12-C. With no corroborating evidence beyond the victim’s statement, the court cannot proceed.”

Mariela breaks before he finishes.

“I’m declaring a mistrial.” The gavel slams down. “Charges dismissed.”

I stand, motionless. Somewhere between stunned silence and a laugh that wants to spiral.

Travis turns, basking. His suit looks sharper, like freedom has a tailor.

Mariela gasps. “I told the truth,” she whispers. “He’s going to do it again.”

I want to scream. Cry. Rip the world apart. Instead, there’s just static.

“He’s going to come for me again,” she adds.

“No, Mariela.” My voice is low but solid. “He won’t.”

He strolls past the prosecution table where I laid out his lies like puzzle pieces. The bailiff holds the door like he’s off to brunch.

Free. Not innocent. Just free.

He pauses at the threshold, smirking over his shoulder.

I step in front of Mariela, my body between his and hers.

“Better luck next time, sweetheart,” he says.

My fists curl. My jaw tightens. But I smile—soft, hollow—for her.

“This isn’t over,” I whisper. “I’m not giving up.”

But as he disappears into the press swarm, I’m left in the wreckage. Whispers circle. My pulse pounds a hopeless rhythm.

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