Page 78 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

I retreat deeper into the hall shadows, a smirk twitching at the edge of my mouth.

I love this part.

Her, going about her night. Me, inside her home with her. So close she could almost feel me—and yet she doesn’t.

Adrenaline spikes. My body tenses.

I slip into the utility closet just before the hinges creak downstairs.

She’s home.

My chest tightens at the sound of her voice—syrupy and sweet, cooing to that damned fluff-ball menace she treats like a child.

“Dexter, baby! Was such a good boy.”

I squint.

You should be greeting me like that, sunshine. Not that furry little asshole.

Footsteps echo below, soft and deliberate. Then—paws, tapping up the stairs.

Fucking Dexter.

The bane of my existence, wrapped in six pounds of fluff and judgment.

He stops outside the closet, sniffing like a narc in a chew-toy disguise. A low growl builds in his throat, sharp and suspicious.

I clench my jaw.

“You little shit,” I whisper, breath tight.

He growls louder. My pulse kicks. I stay still, barely breathing, every muscle coiled.

“Dexter?” Her voice drifts up. “What are you barking at, buddy?”

Shut the fuck up, Dexter. Play dead for once in your miserable life.

The irony isn’t lost on me—a grown man hiding from a snaggletoothed puffball.

I freeze, counting heartbeats in the dark. It’s humiliating—until it’s not. Because if she finds me now, everything I’ve built crumbles.

Downstairs, keys rattle against the counter.

“Dexter, come down here!” she calls again, firmer.

Please listen to your mommy,I think acidly.Be a good boy, you fluffy little snitch.

But her footsteps start climbing.

Fuck.

Blood roars in my ears. I can’t move—panic cements me in place.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen.

Not now. Not like this.

I’ve planned our first meeting a hundred different ways—each moment scripted, perfect.

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