Page 32 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

I toss the knife into my tote, shove open the door, already dialing as I cross the street.

It rings.

No answer.

My heart climbs into my throat?—

And then—bless the color pink—she walks out the door, head down, checking her phone.

“Mariela!” I say her name too brightly. Too loudly.

“Poppy? What are you doing here?”

Well, for one—I’m hiding a murder knife in my tote.

For two—I lie.

“Oh! I was just… on my way to Pilates,” I say, gesturing to my hot-pink leggings like I’m totally normal. “Thought maybe you wanted a ride to work?”

She tilts her head, then smiles, clearly relieved. “That would be amazing.”

She climbs in. I exhale like I’ve just come back from the dead.

And it’s chaos in here.

Crumbs. An open protein bar on the floorboard. A cracker perched on the dash like it stood night watch.

My license plate notepad fell on the floorboard and creased several of the pages. I’ll have to rewrite it.

Also—I still have to pee.

Regret. So much regret.

“Oh my gosh—I’m so sorry,” I say, scrambling to gather wrappers. “There was… a rogue squirrel. Climbed in through the sunroof and went for the snacks. You know how those squirrels are.”

I sound ridiculous.

She laughs. “It’s fine. My car’s a mobile recycling bin. I’ve got six bottles and at least two cups I’m scared to open.”

I release a nervous chuckle but I still want to vacuum my soul.

The ride isn’t what I expect.

Mariela looks... fresh.

Her hair is smooth. Her blouse neatly pressed and her lip gloss is glossing like never before.

She looks like a woman starting over.

Like she slept.

At a red light, I sneak a glance and exhale a sacred sigh of pride.

It’s working.

The locks. The alarm. The totally illegal stakeout.

I’m showing up and telling her she’s not alone. That we’re not going down without a fight.

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