Page 80 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer
The utility closet door creaks open. On my feed, I watch her peer inside, smug.
“See, you little psychopath. Empty.”
She heads toward her room and I follow her like she’s gravity.
I watch my phone like an addict as she undresses—slow, soft, unaware. Steam blurs the feed as she steps into the shower.
God, how she tortures me.
This is my window.
I ease open the linen closet, silent—only to be greeted by a familiar, judgmental growl.
Dexter.
He snarls like he weighs more than six pounds.
I narrow my eyes.
“You’ve got one tooth. What’s your plan here, buddy?”
I ghost forward. No sound, no trace.
Dexter follows, barking like he’s auditioning for the K9 unit.
“For fuck’s sake,” I hiss.
This dog could shatter glass—and my entire operation.
I toss a treat. Silence. Toss another. He follows.
I slip downstairs. Adrenaline sharpens everything.
A leather tote by the door catches my eye. I slide on my specs and just like I thought, blood. Faint but glowing.
“Jesus, sunshine. How the hell did you miss this?”
There’s no question—I have to take it. But the snaggletooth menace is still trailing me.
“Just so you know, she was mine first,” I mutter, half to him, half to myself.
He lifts his leg maintaining direct eye contact.
“No—” Too late.
I shove the tote beneath him, catching the piss just in time. He watches me smugly.
“You’re really enjoying this, huh?” I mutter. “You’re ruining everything.”
He just sits there, paws aligned, one stupid tooth gleaming like he owns the damn place.
“You look ridiculous,” I growl.
Fucking asshole.
Yes, I’m beefing with a purse-accessory that barks.
I eye the bag—now soaked in indignity. I’ll have to take it. She’s definitely going to notice it’s gone.
