Page 63 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Yeah. You should be arrested for this, too.

I stumble to the back door and open it just in time for my pint-sized witness to strut outside. He pees with purpose, then turns toward me.

Judgment in every glance.

When he’s done sending me to the emotional guillotine, we head back in. I reheat yesterday’s turkey, chop some rice and carrots, and slide it into a bowl like I’m hosting brunch for a tiny mob boss.

“Bon appétit, Detective,” I mutter.

He sniffs once and dives in like I’ve been starving him.

He’s clearly well cared for. Someone has to be looking for him. If he has a chip, they’ll come knocking.

A flash of the warehouse hits before I can blink it away.

I wonder if they could trace his chip trail. Right past the crime scene.

At least I have a reason to be in the area. Mariela.

My name’s on a police report. Logged with the dispatcher.

Things I’m cataloging—just in case.

Two things before I figure out what to do with the body I left behind.

Make sure no one is looking for Dexter. And get rid of any evidence here at my home. Because here is the first place the police will come looking.

When I walk upstairs and open my closet doors, Dexter trots in and plants himself in the middle of the floor like he’s ready to judge my wardrobe.

Try it buddy. I’ve got impeccable taste and a sea of pink you can drown in.

I settle on black leggings, a pink croptop, sunglasses big enough to hide behind, and a pink and black polka dot scarf to wrap around my head. It’s giving 1950’s Marylin Monroe chic.

My favorite pink tennies wereruinedlast night doing things we won’t mention. But thankfully, I have another pair.

Blending in is key. Low-profile. Keep it casual and crime-free.

As I fuss with the placement of the scarf, I look down.

Dexter is still watching. Still judging.

“I’m getting you proper food,” I tell him. “And maybe something to help you blend into society. Your pink era is givingmanslaughter meets Lisa Frank.”

He blinks once, utterly unfazed.

I grab my phone and whisper, “Guard the house, Dexter,” while opening my rideshare app.

He yawns, clearly unimpressed with his task.

Rude.

Blend in. Blend in.

Just your average mentally stable woman buying things for a dog she totally didn’t steal from a murder scene.

I march into Petorama with the kind of manic energy reserved for people who cry in their car before yoga.

I have no idea what I’m looking for so I look at everything.

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