Page 21 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer
A violent rape followed by years of harassment. A child to protect.
But the binding. The overkill and the slashed throat.
That would be hard to justify.
I grab my purse, files, and head out.
Halfway down the stoop, I check my phone again. Still no reply from Mari.
The signs are escalating and her fear is no longer theoretical.
It’s real and it’s here.
It’s crawling under her skin—and mine.
Four days ago, she went back to her apartment for her laptop and work badge—forgotten in her rush to leave.
She was there only minutes but froze when she found a pile of cigarette butts on the fire escape.
She called me after hearing something. A note slid under the door.
I still remember the way you tasted.
Mari was hysterical. I stayed on the line while two uniforms escorted her to her car.
Then, two nights ago at the hotel—her voice trembling beneath false bravado.
“I didn’t put the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door.”
That was all she said at first. But I heard the unraveling. She’d left early for work—late, exhausted, barely holding it together. Came back to find the sign dangling from the handle.
That red plastic tag screaming the true message:I was inside.
She got the manager and asked they accompany her inside. She waited by the door until they came up and went in with her.
It was empty—but not untouched.
Her suitcase was repacked—clothes folded too neatly. Cosmetics moved from the right side of the counter to the left. Hangers turned the opposite direction. Everything was intentional.
He was telling her, he’d been there. And he’d taken his time.
That was two days ago.
Yesterday, she didn’t answer.
Not on her cell. Not at work.
Voicemail went straight to the generic carrier message.
Which is how I find myself here, in front of her apartment, one hand curled around my keychain pepper spray as I stare are her partially open apartment door.
My pulse spikes as I push it gently with my knuckle and it creaks inward.
“Mari?” I call, stepping inside.
No answer.
I ease the door open, avoiding contact, every step a silent prayer this isn’t what I think it is. That she’s asleep. Out. Forgot her phone.
