Page 81 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

It’ll just become part of the plan. A calling card. Like the blank texts I’ve been sending her.

Like the greeting I have planned for tomorrow.

I narrow my eyes at the pink terror.

“I’m watching you.”

He doesn’t move. Still smug. Still victorious.

As the door clicks softly shut behind me, I exhale. Frustration and dry amusement tangle in my throat.

Outmaneuvered by a cotton ball.

Next time, I win.

My breath clouds the bathroom mirror as I lean in, applying the last swipe of mascara. Today has to be perfect—calm, collected, and completely unremarkable. Flawless makeup. Practiced smile. Model citizen.

I’m just blending a smudge beneath my lower lashes when something in the shower’s reflection catches my eye. A distorted shape. I straighten slowly, pulse ticking up as I stare through the condensation on the glass door.

There it is. A handprint.

Big. Male. Impossible to explain.

I laugh—too sharp, too thin.

It’s not mine. It couldn’t be.

Maybe maintenance? But they’ve never touched the shower. And I wiped down every inch of this place in my Friday-night postmurder meltdown.

Didn’t I?

My heart pounds louder than reason as I step closer. The print’s still visible, even through the steam.

I wrench my gaze away and brace against the counter, willing my breath to slow. Not today, Poppy. Not when you’re due in court.

But my hands shake as I set the mascara down. The utility closet flashes through my mind—Dexter growling.

His barking I heard from the bathroom last night. Goosebumps rise across my skin.

You’re being paranoid.

Unless… you’re not.

My perfume bottle trembles as I force another inhale. Could someone have been here? Maybe the police? Found evidence and slipped in quietly to investigate?

No. Cops wouldn’t be stealthy. They’d knock, warrant in hand, and badges blazing.

I reach for the other perfume bottle and my hand stalls midair.

There’s also the texts.

From the unknown number. Blank. No message. Just… presence.

It started after Travis died.

Not before. Not during. After.

A thought slams into me so hard I nearly drop the glass: What if someone saw me?

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