Page 39 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

And for a moment, I forget how to move.

My whole body tightens, frozen in place as the sound of her goodbye settles like frost over everything.

The air is too still. The bathroom too quiet.

The mirror reflects me back—wide-eyed and helpless.

Somewhere deep in my chest, something breaks open.

I’m a fury. A blur. A pink-sneakered hurricane tearing through the house with my phone pressed to my ear, the other hand fumbling for keys.

“911—what is your emergency?”

“My client, Mariela Castillo—I believe she’s attempting suicide,” I say, breath ragged. “Possible overdose. I need an ambulance dispatched immediately.”

I give the address clearly—twice. “She’s not responding to calls or texts. Please—she needs help now.”

I don’t even hear the dispatcher’s reply. I’m already flying down the stairs, fingers shaking as I hit the keypad to set the alarm before the door slams.

No time to change. I’m still in my Pilates bodysuit. I throw on a jean jacket and go.

I barely remember buckling my seatbelt. Just that I’m driving like everything depends on it—because it does.

Poor Mari. I should’ve seen this.

The calm this morning. The fresh face.

She’d already decided and today was her goodbye.

The city blurs past. Red lights flicker like decorations I don’t have time for. Tires scream through every turn.

“MOVE YOUR TUESDAY-TAKING GRANNY WAGON!” I shriek at a beige sedan. “Are you knitting socks behind the wheel?!”

I swerve around them as the car in front of me stops at a yellow light.

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME? It’s not a cease-and-desist order!”

I punch the horn and fly through the intersection, catching my phone midair as it slides.

“Miss, emergency services are pulling up,” the dispatcher says.

My heart’s in my throat. My pulse pounds behind my teeth.

Please let me be wrong.

Minutes later, I’m rounding the last corner. Blue and red lights flash across the buildings.

My car jerks to a stop—half on the curb and I’m out before it’s in park.

“Move,” I bark, legs unsteady as I sprint toward the lights.

There’s a stretcher and Mariela is on it, too pale.

Her lips are tinged blue and it punches the air from my lungs.

“No—Mari,” I whisper, stumbling forward.

A paramedic intercepts me, hand on my arm. “Do you know this woman?”

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