Page 154 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Dexter lets out a soft sigh as he shifts into his usual curl, snaggletooth catching the lamplight like punctuation on a very long, very weird day.

I watch the shadows shift on the ceiling. Eyes open. Thoughts circling like vultures.

I don’t feel guilty.

I feel… alert.

Like something’s coming.

Like it’s already on the way.

It’s not sleep, so I pick up the burner phone with the kind of dread usually reserved for tax audits and pap smears.

The stillness buzzes under my skin like a warning.

I flip open the screen.

The texts hit all at once. Dozens.

Warnings.

Panic.

All caps.

Location pins.

Messages that read like screams typed too fast to spellcheck. From someone who wasn’t just worried—someone desperate.

And I didn’t see a single one until it was too late.

I thumb through them slowly, like maybe reading slower will lessen the guilt curdling in my stomach.

One of the last just says:

I can’t lose you.

I close the phone. Look around again, hoping to spot some sign of the surveillance I’ve apparently been under. Nothing obvious. No blinking lights. No hidden lens. But I know he’s here. Or at least watching.

I’m thinking he always is.

I set the phone in my lap and sit up straighter, heart thudding loud in my chest like it’s trying to work up the nerve before my mouth does.

“Are you… there?”

I wait.

Ten seconds. Maybe fifteen.

The phone dings.

UNKNOWN: Always.

My breath leaves me in a soft, shaking exhale. One single tear slips down my cheek—too slow to feel dramatic, too fast to stop.

I whisper the truth before I can second-guess it.

“I don’t want to be alone.”

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