Page 91 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Tip for next time: tarps.

My body freezes.

Whoever sent this wasn’t bluffing.

They saw what I did.

And they’re watching.

I type back with shaking hands.

POPPY: Who are you? This isn’t funny. This is sick.

Then I block the number.

I close my eyes and take a breath that does absolutely nothing to calm me.

Because for the first time since this started, I don’t feel like the one holding the secrets.

Someone else was there. Someone saw me kill a man.

And that someone dismembered the body after.

Hospitals smell like overcooked Jell-O, bleach, and quiet disappointment.

I step into the room balancing a too-bright bouquet of daisies in a polka-dot vase I panic-bought from the gift shop. It looked “cheerful”—and if anyone needs that, it’s Mariela.

She lies in bed, pale against white sheets, staring at the ceiling like it’s holding her together.

She doesn’t look at me when I enter, doesn’t blink when I set the flowers on the window ledge and gently clear my throat.

“Hey,” I say, inching closer like I might scare her off. “I brought you these.”

No response. Not even a glance.

Her skin is gray, lips dry, and the hospital bracelet looks oversized, like she’s shrunk since Friday.

Meanwhile, I’m pretending I didn’t get anonymous photos of the man she feared—chopped into puzzle pieces on a tarp.

I can’t tell her he’s gone. I definitely can’t say I haven’t heard from him. That would mean I’m expecting to.

Because someone will notice he’s missing and I need to be shocked-but-cooperative innocence.

So I go with hope.

Poppy Hartwell, Dealer of Silver Linings and Slightly Unhinged Smiles.

“I hear you’re going to an amazing inpatient facility,” I say gently. “The staff is great and they have private rooms.”

Still nothing.

“Are you doing okay?” I add. “Getting some rest?”

Mariela finally looks at me. Her eyes are empty, color drained to dust.

I know what she’s thinking. That he’ll come back. That I stole her only way out.

She doesn’t know I gave her freedom. And I can never tell her.

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