Page 75 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Dexter watches judgmentally. Possibly impressed.

When they’re all ready, I send them down the chute.

A low clang echoes as it disappears into whatever infernal void waits below.

“And just like that… poof. Gone.”

After liberally applying some hand sanitizer fixed to the wall, I wipe my hands on my thighs. My knees feel like water, and my spine is held together with espresso and spite, but the job is done. At least, this part is.

Now all I have to do is exit and pray that nobody notices me leaving a room that says DO NOT ENTER.

No big deal.

Totally normal Sunday.

Just your average pink-drenched girl and her pink-dyed war-criminal shichon.

Something else I got out of today—the mixed breed of my cute, snorting companion.

“Dexter,” I whisper. “Come here, baby. Let’s not add breaking and entering to our criminal résumé.”

His head tilts. Snaggletooth in full sass mode. And then—he bolts.

A full lap around the room, nails skittering across the tile like a tap dancer on caffeine. Tongue out. Pure joy on his deranged little face.

“Dexter!” I whisper-hiss, chasing after him. “You’re blowing our cover!”

He dodges a mop bucket, rounds the hazardous waste chute like it’s a Formula One track, and keeps running. I make a lunge and miss by an inch, nearly face-planting into a cabinet labeled FELINE URINE SAMPLES – DO NOT TIP.

And because the universe loves me, the door swings open.

An attendant walks in holding another red bag, sees me crouched in a squat-lunge like I’m mid–yoga pose, and freezes.

I straighten quickly, brushing imaginary lint off my top. “Sorry! He just… ran in here.” I gesture vaguely, like that explains anything.

The guy blinks. “He?”

As if summoned, Dexter tears past his ankles like a pink, furry bullet.

And just like that, it becomes a full-blown foot chase.

Two vet techs and one emotionally compromised dog mom sprinting after an animal who probably thinks this is the best game ever invented.

“This is fine,” I mutter under my breath. “This is normal. This is what responsible adulthood looks like.”

One of the techs grabs a treat jar off the counter, gives it a rattle.

Shake. Shake. Shake.

Dexter skids to a stop mid-sprint, does a cartoon-style spin, then sits perfectly still like he’s posing for a Renaissance portrait.

I blink. “Did you just… Jedi mind trick my dog?”

Then—because he’s not done tormenting me—he slowly rises up on his haunches, front paws flailing in the air like jazz hands.

Actual jazz hands, begging. Full-onOliver TwistPlease, sir, can I have some more?begging.

I slap both palms over my mouth to contain the squeal threatening to rupture the time–space continuum.

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