Page 74 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

She gives me a handout about local rescues and shelters. I fold it neatly and slip it into my tote, where it will live for the rest of eternity, untouched and unbothered.

“Well, you two are all set. Just grab your intake forms and some heartworm prevention at reception,” she says as she steps out.

And this? This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.

The one I planned for.

Operation: Destroy the Evidence.

I casually scoop Dexter into my arms and slide off the stool with the grace of a legally blonde ninja. He lets out a small, inquisitive grunt but doesn’t protest. Maybe he knows. Maybe he supports my plan.

I walk the hallway like I belong. Not fast. Not slow. Just purposeful. As if I’m a woman with real errands and zero evidence in my possession.

I pass the patient bathroom, a janitor’s closet, a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. Then?—

BIOHAZARDOUS WASTE – STAFF ONLY

Bingo.

The sign is small. White letters on a red background. The kind of sign that usually keeps people out.

But me?

Not a chance.

This is where the magic happens. The quiet disposal. The final curtain call. The place where unspeakable things go to be un-speeched.

I glance down at Dexter. His tongue sticks out just slightly.

“Wish me luck, my little accomplice,” I whisper.

Inside, the room smells like bleach, pet shampoo, and poor decisions.

Everything is stainless steel and horror-movie sterile. A wall lined with red-lidded bins. One big industrial chute marked INCINERATOR – DO NOT TOUCH. Which I will absolutely be touching.

Because I’m a professional. And desperate.

Dexter snorts beside me like he already disapproves.

“All right, Dex,” I whisper, setting him gently on the floor. “You’re my lookout. No distractions. We’re in too deep now.”

He immediately begins sniffing a spot on the floor like it personally insulted him.

I open my tote bag with the reverence of someone unboxing a cursed relic. Because that’s basically what this is.

The bag contains a greatest-hits collection of the longest night of my life:

My shredded black bodysuit, blood-splattered gloves and all.

Every single item is tagged in my mind with a memory I wish I could bleach.

I pause. One last look that makes me close my eyes.

This is taking it a step further. Destroying evidence after fleeing the scene of a crime. Everything I’m doing is only adding more years onto a lifelong sentence.

But I have to do it. I have to outsmart this. Outrun it.

I slip each bloodied package into the red biohazard bags, seal them, one by one—quiet and methodical.

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