Page 22 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

But it’s on the kitchen counter, right where she’d have dropped it if she’d come in.

Except she’s not here.

The apartment is too still and eerily so.

It feels tense. Like the whole apartment building is holding its collective breath.

I scan slowly, heart pounding.

The blinds are drawn as morning light slices across the floor.

There’s no struggle. No broken glass. No blood.

But something’s wrong. I can feel it.

“Mari?” I call again, louder.

Still nothing.

I move toward the hallway, pepper spray clenched, listening.

The floor creaks under my heels—then, faintly, a sharp, strangled sound.

A sob that makes me freeze.

“Mari?” I say, softer now. “It’s me. It’s Poppy. Are you here?”

A shuffle. Fabric against tile. Another choked sound.

“Bathroom,” she manages.

I find the door at the hall’s end. Closed and locked.

I press my palm to the wood, voice gentle, coaxing.

“It’s me, okay? Just me. I’m here.”

Silence.

“I need you to unlock the door. Please.”

After a moment, I hear the faintest click on the other side of the door and it opens.

There she is, curled in the bathroom corner, knees to her chest, back against the tile wall. Her makeup’s smudged, her clothes are wrinkled, and her hands are shaking.

She doesn’t look up. Just says, barely audible, “He—he.”

I crouch slowly, careful not to spook her, and wrap my arms around her.

“It’s okay,” I whisper. “Take your time.”

She buries her face in my shoulder and lets out a sound that cracks me open—fear and exhaustion tangled into one.

“I was in the shower.” She swallows. “When I got out… there was a used condom on the counter.”

My stomach drops.

“There was a note,” she adds, blinking fast. “It said—” She falters. “It said,you look good naked.”

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