Page 66 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

It’s like stocking a baby nursery—only for a four-legged, judgmental roommate with a bladder the size of a thimble and a flair for dramatic exits.

After getting the collar tag engraved, I push my overflowing cart to the checkout line. It’s stacked like I’m prepping for a puppy apocalypse. The cashier gives it a once-over and blinks slowly, like she’s trying to figure out if this is a resale project or a mental breakdown.

Honestly? It’s both.

She starts scanning while I pretend to casually sip from the complimentary store water cooler and act like someone who definitely didn’t commit a violent felony this week.

I’m even nodding along to the in-store music like “Walking on Sunshine” isn’t personally mocking me.

“Did anyone help you today?” the cashier asks, cheerful and oblivious.

Panic flickers behind my eyes.

“Uhh…” My voice catches like a rusted hinge. “Someone… did. Um. Mike?”

Her brows lift.

“You mean Mark?” she deadpans.

“Yes! Yes. Mark. Totally what I said. Just... mumble-mouth.”Insert awkward laugh here.

She doesn’t look convinced, but she’s too underpaid to care.

As she bags everything, I pull out my phone and order a rideshare.

I should probably look into rentals if my car has to remain in the witness protection program for a while.

Huh. Another text. Unknown number. Nothing again.

I reply with “STOP” and delete it.

She finishes bagging my cartload of impulsive guilt-spending, and I thank her with a weirdly formal head nod—like I’m leaving a funeral reception.

I step outside just as my ride pulls up. Mint green Prius. Of course.

They’re always a Prius.

But before I can move forward, I hear the one sound I’ve been dreading since last night’s scare. The sound I’ve been expecting since I ran out of that warehouse, forever different.

Sirens.

Several of them.

They’re coming and fast.

Three cop cars fly into the parking lot with their lights on. No slow roll. Just full velocity—tires screeching, doors cracking open before they’ve even come to a complete stop.

My body turns to cement.

My heart free-falls into my stomach and throws itself against the floorboards of my soul likethis is it, this is how we die.

They found the body.

They know.

I’m going to prison.

Dexter’s going to starve in the laundry room, wrapped in a cashmere throw like a tiny pink burrito.

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