Page 133 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

She’s close now. Just a few blocks.

I’m too far away.

My hands are slick with sweat and rage, and the steering wheel’s starting to creak from how hard I’m holding it.

I’m talking to her without meaning to. Whispering like she can hear me through every red light I blow.

Stay calm, Sunshine. Don’t let him see you’re scared. Just a little longer.

I’m coming.

I’m coming for you, baby.

The car pulls up to the curb in front of her house.

The same fucking car that’s been circling over and over like a goddamn vulture waiting for the final breath.

She steps out.

My heart stops. I can’t fucking breathe.

Even the goddamn world stops spinning.

She’s okay. Still in one piece.

But she’s scanning—nervous. Her shoulders are tight, cheeks are flushed. Her keys are in her hand like a weapon, white-knuckled.

She knows something’s wrong. Not how wrong, but her instincts are firing.

“Good girl.”

She keeps her back to the house. Eyes on the car and she waits.

“Don’t turn your back, baby. Don’t give him the opening. You know better than that.”

The car doesn’t pull away just yet.

It lingers. Like he’s waiting. Like he’s hoping for something.

I slam the heel of my hand into the steering wheel and scream into the windshield.

“FUUUCKING MOVE!”

Drive. Away. You sick fuck.

“I’m going to fucking kill you.”

And I am.

He finally pulls off.

Poppy watches, every muscle in her shoulders locked tight.

And I keep driving—every turn an act of war, every second counting down to when I can put my hands on him and make him sorry for ever setting eyes on my girl.

She doesn’t even know what almost happened.

Or maybe she does.

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