Page 54 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

My sunshine finally scorched something.

And that dog?—

that wriggly, white, chaotic puffball with the snaggletooth is a sadist. Mark my words.

That thing enjoyed every second. It defiled the body before you could sayrigor mortis.Honestly, I respect the gusto.

I watch as the deranged fluffball covers himself in blood like a paint roller.

Poppy chases him in circles, slipping, stumbling, leaving handprints and hair like she’s personalizing the scene.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and shake my head. “Jesus, Sunny.”

If she had glitter, she’d probably scatter it too. The girl couldn’t be more traceable if she tattooed her socials on his ass.

I’d intervene, but... watching her run half-barefoot, blood-drenched, after a feral dog in a decaying warehouse she just christened with her first kill?

Yeah. This is the best show I’ve seen all year.

But I suppose I can’t sit up here all night.

This isn’t the closest we’ve ever come to each other. I’ve made sure there were dozens of small moments where she walked past me so I could smell her perfume flowing off her. Hear her voice and pretend she’s talking to me.

A million times I stood behind her in a grocery store and she never knew.

This could be the perfect moment. The moment when I finally face her, tell her I love her, and watch her fall in love with me.

Just the way I know she will.

Butterflies surge in my stomach at the thought. With each second that passes, it feels more and more right.

Ordained, even.

I use the ladder fixed to the side of the building and climb down.

We’re even matching—both of us wearing all black. This is it.

The moment I’ve thought about on a loop, and I can’t help but bite back a smile.

I cross the long-abandoned and cracked road that divides the warehouses. Silent.

Like smoke passing through shadows.

Flat against the building, I calm my breathing. Try to steady my pulse, but it’s a hammer.

Peeking into the open window, she’s finally scooped up the creature—he licks her nose like he’s proud of himself.

I narrow my eyes. He better watch it. She was mine first.

I’m running through opening lines in my mind, flipping through them like cards on a Rolodex, hunting for the perfect one when she races out of the warehouse.

What the fuck, Poppy?

Two feet away from her and she didn’t even see me. Didn’t even look over her shoulder. Just ran.

I hold up my hand, inhale a breath, and I swear I plan to call out to her. But the words are frozen in my throat.

Instead, I just watch her run like a crazed cartoon character down the alley. She zigzags, dog underarm, knife blade swinging like she’s auditioning forWest Side Story: Trauma Edition.

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