Page 274 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

He rears back with a roar, his hand flying up, catching me across the face with a blow that rattles my teeth and splits my lip wide open.

I stagger across the room, bracing my hands against the hard wall to soften the impact.

A metallic taste floods my mouth, but I hold fast to the handle of my knife.

But I don’t need it. Not right now.

He grabs at his throat, wild-eyed—but it’s too late.

His arms go slack. His knees buckle.

He hits the floor hard, dragging himself an inch, maybe two, before the drug wins.

I wipe the blood from my mouth with the back of my hand, lip burning like fire.

My whole body aches, but it’s a good ache—one I’ve earned.

I lean over him, pick up his slack arm, and let it drop to the ground like dead weight.

A dark, bitter smile curves my lips.

“Let’s have some fun,” I whisper.

Red lights blur into nothing. My tires screech turning onto her street.

Tearing into the driveway, a pit opens in my stomach. Her car’s gone.

I slam my fist on the door.

“Poppy!”

No answer.

Inside, Dexter’s barking—sharp, frantic. It guts me.

I kick the door—once, twice.

The third hit splinters the wood.

Dexter’s barking grows louder as I rush inside.

“Poppy!”

Nothing.

No footsteps. No scent of her shampoo. No clumsy sounds.

I tear through the house—bedroom, closet, bathroom.

Then I stop.

On the floor: a twisted bedsheet.

Bloodstained. Not much—but enough.

Someone hurt her. I don’t know how badly.

I force myself to breathe.

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