Page 60 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Blonde strands... discolored. A faint rust-hued tinge clinging to the ends.

“Oh, sweet peppermint patties.”

I stare at my hair in the mirror, feeling personally betrayed my natural blonde has been defiled. The coppery tint is faint—barely there—but it is there, and that means I am one step away from matching my pink murder accomplice in the tub.

No Google. No searches. That’s rule number one. No desperate “how to remove blood stains from blonde hair” queries that get traced back to me.

No digital breadcrumbs, thank you very much.

I think fast. Old school. Grandma-style solutions. Boiling water. Apple cider vinegar. A little whispered prayer to the gods of salon safety.

I pour the hot, acidic rinse through my hair in a big mixing bowl and then rewash with my expensive shampoo. Twice. Rinse. Condition. Repeat for good measure.

When I rinse for the final time, I check the mirror and let out a small breath of relief.

My blonde is back.

Poppy: 1

Homicide aftermath: ...a strong 37

Feeling brave (desperate), I try the same trick on Dexter.

He stands in the bowl like a tiny warlock awaiting some ancient canine baptism while I pour my concoction over his cotton-candy pink fluff.

I rinse. Scrub. Rinse again.

Nothing.

He shakes violently, and hops out of the bowl with an offended huff.

Still pink.

He waddles across the bathroom floor like the world’s tiniest bubblegum goblin, tail high, snaggletooth the only white thing on him now.

“Oh, you’re adorable,” I mutter, wrapping him in a towel. “Adorable and highly admissible in court.”

Which brings me to the next problem: my furry little co-conspirator has been through a lot tonight—and, judging by the way he’s been licking tile grout, he’s probably starving.

I reheat a small plate of turkey, rice, and broccoli I was planning to have for dinner tomorrow. Dexter practically levitates when he smells it.

He devours it in two minutes flat, tail wagging like he didn’t just roll around in crime-scene residue an hour ago.

“Good boy,” I whisper, crouching beside him.

He licks my ankle in thanks and follows me to the laundry room like he knows his way around the house already.

I secure him inside with a clean towel, a bowl of water, and stern instructions not to pee on anything I can’t bleach.

He yawns.

I sigh.

And then I grab my pink gloves, my favorite cleaning caddy, a bottle of bleach, and head for the car.

Because I may have cleaned me...

But the crime scene on wheels still has the DNA of a dead rapist all over it.

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