Page 67 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

My thoughts hit DEFCON-level spiral.

Do I run?

Fake a seizure?

Call my mom and tell her I love her?

I take a step back. Then another.

My shoe catches on a rock.

I stumble, arms flailing, until my back slams into the brick wall of the pet store. The cold jolts me—but not enough to make sense of anything. Not enough to stop the rising burn of bile in my throat or the choked sob straining behind my clenched teeth.

I lift my hands in surrender. I know it’ll go easier if I cooperate.

The cops bypass me completely, racing straight into the very pet store I just exited.

The rideshare driver gets out to watch the spectacle, posing as helpful while I’m standing there, hands s till raised with my emotional support squeaky pig and a bag of overpriced liver treats.

A man bolts out of the pet store behind me.

And I meanbolts—like someone yelledFree rotisserie chickens!and this man has unfinished business with poultry.

I don’t even have time to register what’s happening before one of the officers lunges forward and takes him down hard. Concrete meets torso. There’s a wheeze. A squeal. Maybe from him. Maybe from me.

He’s mid-forties, all belly and bluster, wearing the same cornflower-blue shirt I saw on that helpful aisle guy earlier. Was his name Matt? No—Merit?

Wait, does it matter?

They’re reading him his rights and shoving him into the back of a cruiser, sobbing like an absolute baby. It’s always the big ones who break down the easiest.

I’m still frozen against the wall, sweating like a glazed ham but they weren’t here for me.

I’m still free.

For now.

I glance around, like someone might still jump out from behind the automatic door display and yell,“Just kidding! Twenty-five to life!”But nothing happens. Just the quiet hum of chaos dissipating and the smell of rawhide in my nostrils.

My rideshare driver—God bless her—is standing beside the open trunk. She’s got sunglasses, a mullet, and the expression of a woman who knows this story is going to kill in the group chat.

Maybe I shouldn’t use that phrase.

This story is going tohit hardin the group chat. Yes, that’s better.

Much more innocent sounding.

We make eye contact and nod politely.

Neither of us says a word as I toss my bags into the back and slide into the seat like my legs only just remembered how to work.

My hands won’t stop shaking. I grip the edge of the seatbelt and try to breathe through my nose like my therapist always said. Four in. Four hold. Four out.

I close my eyes and let my head fall back, the counting giving me something to focus on.

You’re fine, I think to myself.You’re okay. You’re just… a dog mom. A totally normal, law-abiding, trauma-free dog mom.

The city smells different when something’s burned to the ground.

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