Page 42 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

I freeze.

The tote slips off my shoulder with a dull thud as I turn toward the sound.

Something moves in the shadows—high up and my gaze lifts.

There—just visible under the dim glow of a distant security light—a figure is descending the fire escape.

Slow. Controlled.

He moves like he’s done it a hundred times. Maybe he has.

My breath catches in my throat as I trace his path upward with my eyes.

He was just at her apartment.

My pulse hammers so loud I can hear it in my ears.

I clutch the knife.

I don’t remember deciding to do it—I just... do.

My fingers tighten around the handle, the blade heavy and cold, my other hand braced on the trunk.

He hits the pavement with a soft thump, boots barely making a sound.

Then he turns.

Stops in the middle of the alley, hood still up, face still hidden.

And then... slowly... deliberately...

He pulls the hood down.

My stomach drops.

It’s him.

That face. That same smug expression from the courtroom. From the security footage. From every waking nightmare that’s haunted Mariela since that night.

Travis Gannon.

The man who beat her. Raped her. Stalked her to the edge of death.

The man who walked away free.

He smiles.

That awful, casual, too-proud grin like this is just a game and I’m the next player on the board.

And then—he winks.

My grip tightens on the knife. My legs won’t move and I can’t blink.

He jogs off into the dark.

Just jogs like a man who knows no one’s coming for him.

I stand there frozen, the night air thick against my skin, sticky like fear.

---