Page 72 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Dexter looks fabulous.

And that is not sarcasm. He’s freshly fluffed, his coat evenly dyed in a rich, bubblegum hue that screams intentional aesthetic choice instead of evidence tampering. His snaggletooth juts proudly from the corner of his little pink mouth, his tiny paws crossed like he knows he’s the moment.

I even spritzed him with pet-safe lavender mist, because why commit to a crime-adjacent makeover if you’re not going to seal the look with calming aromatherapy?

We’re ready. Or at least, we look like we are.

I’m a ball of nerves inside, but that seems par for the course recently.

I call a rideshare again, grimacing when I look at the fee. But I’m not risking my murder-tainted car until further notice, and my rental won’t be delivered until tomorrow morning.

So, for now, she remains in garage time-out. And so does my crime-scene clean up plan. I can’t exactly take an Uber to the murder.

Thoughts of someone walking in on a puffed up body make my stomach turn.

No, we’re not thinking about that right now. We’ve got somewhere to be.

I pack light—just the essentials.

An obnoxiously oversized designer tote bag, big enough to carry the Constitution and an entire ham. Inside: three bags of bloody evidence that could put me at Rikers for life.

The pet carrier is sleek, soft-sided, and painfully expensive.

Dexter hates it.

He lets out a huffy little breath like I’ve insulted his dignity, which—fair—but he settles in anyway, because I bribed him with liver treats.

We’re heading to the vet. Not just any vet, mind you. The one I found during my late-night anxiety spiral at two fourteen a.m. yesterday. Out of the way. Sunday hours. Walk-in’s welcome.

And—best of all—it’s also a pet crematorium.

The clinic is modern, warm, and blessedly overpriced—exactly how I like it. No crusty linoleum or 1992 cat posters withHang in there!captions. This place has glass walls, fiddle-leaf figs, a front desk with eucalyptus diffusers, and a soothing playlist of indie acoustic covers of Taylor Swift songs.

Dexter, the walking pink advertisement for plausible deniability, waddles in like he owns the place. One of the vet techs behind the desk claps a hand to her chest and gasps, “Oh my gosh, he’s so cute!”

“Right?” I smile like a totally well-adjusted, emotionally stable human. “He’s a rescue.”

Which is… not a lie. Technically.

The vet tech kneels to his level. “What’s his name?”

“Dexter,” I say automatically, then freeze. Was I supposed to change it? Is that how this works? Witness relocation but for traumatized dogs?

She chuckles, scribbles something on the intake clipboard. “Like the serial killer show?”

I blink. My mouth opens and then closes.

“I mean, he’s got that look,” she adds brightly. “All cute on the outside but definitely plotting something.”

I force a laugh that sounds like a dying blender.

“Yeah,” I croak. “Totally harmless.”

Dexter yips like he agrees, his tail wagging with far too much unbothered confidence for someone who committed a Class A biohazard in an abandoned building less than forty-eight hours ago.

I check us in, trying not to clutch my tote like it contains radioactive evidence and a spare identity.

“Okay,” the tech smiles. “We’ll call you back in a few. Just have a seat!”

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