Page 152 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

He’s just glad I’m here. And it’s enough to almost make me feel okay.

Not safe. Not calm.

But okay enough.

I bend to pick him up, still damp and towel-wrapped, and whisper into his ear like a prayer:

“I’m gonna need you to not eat any more eyeballs, okay?”

He sneezes in my face.

Which, honestly, feels fair.

On the bed, my favorite pajamas are laid out with military precision: the cotton tee that says DEFENSE RESTS across the front, matching pants with little pink gavels, and fuzzy slippers at the foot like some boutique-hotel turndown service from hell.

And… underwear.

A lacy, blush-pink pair. Folded. Centered. Like a gift that sayswear these for me tonight.

My face goes hot. Not from the bath.

From embarrassment.

Because I know he’s watching. He said it. He meant it. He’s probably watching me right now—through something I can’t see.

I clutch Dexter tighter against my chest like he’s a chastity charm.

He sneezes again. Useless.

Downstairs is worse.

The lights are low—comfortably dim. Calming. Like a spa. Or a serial killer’s nesting-doll lair.

On the coffee table, my favorite wine is already poured in my favorite glass.

My eyes flick to the side door. Beyond it—somewhere past the edge of the light—is the body. The blood. The mess I made and walked away from.

Fear prickles up my spine like someone left the A.C. on and didn’t tell me.

And then the burner phone chirps from beside the glass.

I jump like it barked.

Dexter growls. One short, offended sound. Likecan you not.

The screen lights up.

UNKNOWN: It’s okay. Everything is clean.

My breath comes in slow. Then faster. Then slow again, like I’m trying to trick my lungs into believing this is fine.

That I’m fine.

That a stalker isn’t reading my mind and reassuring me.

I look around.

The drawer I know I left a bloody handprint on—gone. Wiped away like a magic trick.

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