Page 92 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

“Hey, the hospital has a copy of the restraining order,” I offer.

A bitter breath escapes her. “You think a piece of paper’s going to stop him?” she whispers. “He always comes back.”

I swallow and nod like I’m not unraveling.

“He can’t come here,” I say quickly. “Security knows. If anyone suspicious shows up, they’ll call it in. Has anyone… bothered you?”

She shakes her head slowly.

“No. It’s been quiet.”

Quiet.

That word sticks in my chest like glass.

Because quiet is worse. Quiet is when things creep. When monsters shift in the dark.

I force a smile and keep lying. “Quiet is good. If I hear anything, you’ll be the first to know. Promise.”

I give her hand a gentle squeeze and head out of the room before I unravel right in front of her.

The hallway is too bright. My heels echo too loudly. I make it to the women’s bathroom and lock myself into the first stall, plopping down on the toilet to get my life together.

To remember how to breathe.

My fingers are tingling, and I need to calm down before I hyperventilate.

My phone buzzes but I ignore it. Closing my eyes, willing myself to take steady breaths in and out.

Finally, I look at my phone. One new email.

Unknown address.

My heart stutters. I click before I can think better of it.

There’s a video attachment. No subject line. No message.

I press play.

It’s a soundless, grainy cell phone video—but I recognize the setting instantly.

It’s my warehouse.

A cigarette flicks, the ember arcs into darkness. Flames ignite in seconds. The video whites out as fire grows—then cuts to black.

There’s no face. No voice.

Just a murder site erased.

My fingers go numb. The phone weighs a thousand pounds.

There’s been no body reported because someone cleaned up after me. Then burned it down. And now everything is slamming together.

The handprint. The missing bag. The texts. Now this.

Someone’s been in my home and has my number.

Now—my email.

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