Page 295 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

"Bribery." I hum, sliding down his arm. "Evidence suppression. Victims turned to inventory.

You turned the court into a rape mail-order catalog."

“But why wait for the perfect cases? Desperate rich boys needing a clean verdict, so their bright futures don’t get,” I air-quote, “ruined by one bad decision.”

I roll my eyes and peel off a layer of pink surgical gloves, revealing the fresh set underneath.

With the bone forceps, I grip his pinky.

Snap.

Onto the tray.

Then the next.

“No, why not expand the biz? Start a trafficking ring.”

Snap

“Excuse cases. Let a criminal organization become your infrastructure.”

Snap.

“Host dinner parties where sleazy politicians pay $150 a plate to rape drugged girls cuffed in corners.”

Snap.

“At first, I thought my mother's case was the turning point. That she killed her rapist to keep him from stalking her.”

Snap.

I hold his thumb like a party favor and laugh—genuine amusement bubbling up. A thought interrupts my villain monologue.

“This is the funniest thing... I actually believed she killed him, and it led to this spiraling episode of hysteria where I accidentally became a serial killer. It was a whole vibe.”

His thumb joins the rest of his sausagy digits. I move to the next hand.

A flick, and I sever the tendons.

He wheezes and his pupils widen likes he’s losing focus. I tap his face, mock-gentle.

"Focus, old man. The story gets juicy."

The truth was worse.

“She overheard you arguing through a vent at the courthouse. She figured it out—her rapist was a judge’s son, and he was going to get away with it.

She ran. For years.

And when she finally got desperate, she didn’t go to the police. She went to your wife.”

All fingers are accounted for, lined up like neat little ducklings.

He gurgles. I keep going.

I slice through the soft meat at the back of his ankle—the Achilles tendon.

None of the victims he helped could run. Neither can he.

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