Page 65 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Freeze-dried. Grain-free. Duck. Elk. Raw Boost—which sounds like canine pre-workout.

Kibble shaped like stars. Bones. Helicopters?

My hands start to shake. My breath goes shallow. The world tilts.

I don’t know what to get. Does he have tummy issues? Is there a certain brand his breed should eat? I don’t even know what breed he is.

I blink once. Then again.

My heart is speeding up, and the noise of the store is getting louder.

And just like that, I’m not in the dog food aisle anymore.

I’m back in the warehouse.

Blood on my arms.Hisweight on top of me. The sound of flesh giving way makes me flinch and close my eyes tight.

The knife, slick and warm in my hand. The spray. The choking gurgle. The look in his eyes just before they went still.

I grip the cart handle like it’s my last tether to Earth.

Focus, Poppy. Focus.

You’ve handled courtrooms. You’ve eviscerated men twice your size in four-inch heels and two hours of sleep. You can pick a dog food.

Just breathe.

“Need help?”

I jump. Literally flinch like someone just fired a gun into the Alpo.

A guy—early thirties, brown hair, soft blue polo, forgettable—stands next to me holding a bag of salmon and rice like it’s the answer to life’s questions. His voice is gentle. His smile is kind in thatI-make-minimum-wage-so-please-be-nicesort of way.

“Oh. Um.” I force a smile—the kind that probably looks like I have gas. “Yeah. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

He glances at my cart. “First-time dog mom?”

I look down at the squeaky squirrel and the pink dye and give a weak shrug. “He’s new. I panicked.”

He laughs. “Salmon and rice is a good place to start. Easy on their stomach, and they usually love the taste.”

I nod, my fingers finally loosening from the cart. “Thank you.”

“Mark,” he says, pointing to his name tag like I can’t read. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

I watch him walk away and wonder—briefly, insanely—if he could tell.

Could he sense it? The murder aura? The faint scent of bleach and trauma?

Probably not. He looked like the kind of guy who reads comics on his break and microwaves fish in the employee lounge.

Still, I grab the salmon and rice.

Then I take a breath.

One aisle down. Too many more to go.

Dogs require so much stuff.

---