Chapter 2
Sly
Of course, it had to be the handle. Out of the two possible outcomes, it had to smack him in the back of the head with the blunt fucking handle.
I groaned so loud it probably shook dust off the ceiling and threw my head back like the drama king I was, half-cursing myself for being such a disappointment, half-secretly relieved because, honestly, a knife sticking out of someone’s skull is not the sort of thing you can spin into an “oopsie, tragic suicide.” Even I had limits on my creativity.
“I really need to learn how to throw a damn knife,” I muttered, because self-awareness is key, even mid-failure.
Garrett’s response was immediate, panicked, and loud enough to wake every tenant in the building. “Are you fucking insane?”
I glared at him, offended. Not by the accusation but by the lack of originality. “I already told you I am! Stop repeating it; it hurts to hear it out loud. Think of my feelings, Gary.”
“You’re a lunatic!”
“Again…I know!” I snapped, throwing my arms out for emphasis. “Congratulations, Sherlock, you cracked the case! Might as well become my new therapist.”
The knife clattered to the floor between us, and we both went still. One of those tense, cinematic moments where the world stops, eyes lock, and there’s a silent countdown in our heads before—bam—we both lunged for it.
“Get the fuck off me!” Garrett shouted when I wrapped myself around him from behind like some deranged koala bear clinging to its last eucalyptus branch.
He bucked and twisted, trying to shake me off, but I had my arms hooked under his and my legs cinched tight around his waist. It was not my proudest pose.
If I had been watching from the outside, I probably would’ve laughed my ass off.
A big guy like me wrapped around a slightly smaller guy in a full-body choke cuddle.
It was more of a sitcom blooper than a murder attempt.
But I didn’t have time to be amused, because the knife was inches away and I was not about to lose my only leverage.
I could’ve used my fists, but do you have any idea how much it hurts to punch someone with your bare knuckles? Hurts like shit, and that’s why boxing gloves were one of the greatest inventions.
“Just get off me and let’s talk, man!” he yelled, voice breaking. “You clearly need help!”
“I’m already getting help!” I shouted back, which was technically true, if you count lying to my therapist as “help.”
“Good, then let’s end this!” His tone turned almost reasonable, which was unsettling. “I won’t tell anybody you broke in, or about killing my friends—”
“I did not kill them! They had accidents!” I barked, squeezing harder, my arms shaking with effort as he flailed. “And I just so happened to be present when it happened.”
And then, because apparently fate loves to challenge me, I lost my grip.
He shoved, I stumbled, and the next thing I knew, I was flat on my back, the air leaving my lungs in one loud whoof.
My vision blurred for a second, but just as I managed to suck in another breath, I realized Garrett was standing above me, my knife now clutched in his hand.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I scrambled backwards on my elbows, holding up one hand like a referee. “Slow down, that thing’s sharp!”
“No shit,” he spat, his face red, his hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. “You broke into my home, I have a right to kill you!”
Well…technically, he wasn’t wrong. This was self-defense by the book. But fuck that. I wasn’t ready to die. I still had half a bucket list unchecked, and I refused to go out before ticking “hot makeout session to Sex on Fire” off my life goals.
“Hold on!” I blurted as he raised the knife high above his head.
My hand flew up in defense, my other pushing against the floor to steady myself.
He swung down fast, the blade flashing in the dim light, and instinct kicked in.
I lashed out with my foot, catching his wrist, and the knife went flying.
“Motherfucker!” Garrett roared, immediately lunging after it.
“Persistent, aren’t you?” I muttered, kicking again, this time hooking his leg and sweeping it out from under him. He toppled forward, momentum carrying him straight toward the glass coffee table.
The crack of his skull against the sharp corner was so loud it made my teeth ache.
And then there was silence. His body crumpled onto the floor next to me, limbs awkward and still, and within seconds, a dark red pool began spreading across the carpet like spilled wine at a very unfortunate dinner party.
I sat there, staring, my chest heaving.
“Shit,” I whispered.
It happened again. Another “accident” in my presence. Another checkmark on the kill list I wasn’t supposed to be making so damn easy for myself.
I pursed my lips, watching the blood spread wider, and couldn’t help but shake my head in disbelief.
Karma was really working overtime for me.
That’s what this was. It had to be karma.
There was no other higher power, no cosmic balance, no divine justice.
Just pure karmic payback for doing me the favor of cleaning up my mess.
I laughed once, sharp and short, then shrugged and pushed myself up. Brushing dust and nonexistent dirt off my jacket, I planted my hands on my hips and surveyed the scene like an artist admiring his finished painting.
“Couldn’t have gone any better,” I told myself, because no one else was listening anymore. “And it wasn’t even planned. Shit…I did hope for a different outcome, though.”
Because this was exactly how Chase died.
Cracked his head open by tripping and hitting it on a counter.
How boring.
I paused and squinted. Wait. Was he really dead? Or just unconscious?
Surely, he couldn’t be losing this much blood without being dead, right?
I crouched beside him, two fingers pressed to his neck.
There was no pulse. I held my hand under his nose to make sure he wasn’t breathing.
Nope, no breath. I studied his face, lips pressed tight, then gave his back a quick pat like I was burping a baby.
“You were a bad guy, Garrett. You deserved this. Rot in hell.”
That felt neat enough.
Now came the awkward part—what to do after the kill.
It always felt weird to leave immediately, like ducking out of a party after just one drink.
Too abrupt. Too rushed. My eyes drifted around the room, taking in the cozy apartment, the still-steaming containers of curry, the paused game on the massive TV.
Honestly, what kind of monster leaves perfectly good Indian food untouched?
So I didn’t.
I plopped down on the same couch Garrett had been sitting on, kicked my feet up, grabbed the curry tray, and dug in with a satisfied groan.
He might have been an asshole, but he had excellent taste in takeout.
And while I ate, I switched off his game, flipped through his three different streaming subscriptions, and settled on something that always made me laugh.
New Girl.
God, I loved that show. Nick Miller was definitely me in an alternate universe. Or maybe I was Nick Miller in this one. Either way, I was him minus the money problems.
By the time the first episode had me laughing, I was already halfway through Garrett’s naan, sipping his lukewarm Coke like it was a fine vintage, leaning back in his spot like I’d just claimed squatter’s rights.
For a moment, I forgot the corpse bleeding out three feet away, and it was just me, Indian food, and Schmidt’s shenanigans. Honestly? Not a bad evening.
***
Later, as I finally peeled myself off the couch and left, I headed straight to my girl.
“I know, I know, baby,” I murmured, wrapping my arms around April’s sleek frame before swinging a leg over her.
“I missed you too. Took a little longer than expected, but you’ll forgive me when I tell you about the curry.
Couldn’t waste it. That’d be the real crime. ”
I put my helmet on and straddled April, then ran a hand lovingly over her tank, still buzzing from the curry and the thrill of another “accidental” death. “I’ve done it again, April. Another one down. Another asshole ticked off my kill list.”
But then I sighed, because the kill list wasn’t the only list that mattered. Actually, it was the second-most important list I made. “If only I could start ticking more off my bucket list. That would be grand.”
Oh, what’s that? You want to know what’s on my bucket list?
You should’ve asked sooner, you silly goose! I love talking about my bucket list.
I’ve already ticked off a few minor ones.
Got a bike—April. Best one by far. Went to New Zealand to check out the Lord of the Rings filming locations.
Epic trip, but holy shit the flight was torture.
Hours and hours in a metal tube with crying babies and a guy next to me who thought deodorant was optional. Never again.
The rest on the list, though? Untouched. Waiting to be crossed off.
I gave the throttle a small twist and felt April’s deep purr vibrate through my legs. I let it settle into me before rolling forward, my mind already drifting away from the road and back to the unfinished business of my bucket list.
#1
Finally learn how to cook one meal that doesn’t involve ramen or me setting off the fire alarm. Just one meal. I don’t need to be Gordon Ramsay. I just don’t want him to barge into my place one day and call me an idiot sandwich while pressing two slices of toast against each side of my head
#2
Have a hot makeout session to ‘Sex on Fire’ by Kings of Leon. Preferably with someone who doesn’t immediately regret it after
#3
Skydive. But only when I’m old. Like, eighty. Because if the chute fails, at least I’ll have lived. Dying at thirty-something because I wanted to ‘feel alive’ feels stupid. Dying at eighty because I wanted to ‘feel alive’ is badass
#4
Tell someone I love them and mean it. No sarcasm. No jokes. No weird finger guns after. Just real words. Preferably to a human, and not April, even though she’ll always be my number one in my heart
#5
Have someone make me breakfast in bed. I don’t care if it’s burnt toast and cereal. I just want to wake up and have someone care enough to bring me coffee without me begging for it
#6
Go to a Natasha Bedingfield concert and scream the lyrics to Unwritten with her on stage
#7
Road trip with no destination. Just me, April, a full tank, no GPS, no plan, just vibes and gas station food for weeks
#8
Write a romance book. Preferably a spicy one. I mean, if I’m already psycho, why not add ‘smut author’ to the resume? Plus, if people actually bought it, imagine how funny it would be to sign copies knowing the inspiration came from an actual murder spree
And then, of course, there’s the kill list. Very different list. Can’t mix those two, because otherwise I’d have to write ‘murder someone (preferably by accident)’ on the bucket list, and that ruins the aesthetic.
I twisted the throttle harder as we reached the highway, with April’s engine growling like she was approving everything I was thinking. Before I could fully focus on my bucket list, I had one last name to cross off the kill list.
Joey Elrod. The grand finale. The one who started it all. He who got his friends to torment me for no apparent reason.
I needed to get to him before the news spread, before he heard that yet another one of his good old buddies had tragically and mysteriously died.
Tomorrow night was the cutoff. If I’d wait any longer, he’d start getting suspicious, maybe buy himself a baseball bat for protection, or Google “how not to die mysteriously.” Can’t have that.
His address wasn’t a secret to me. I’d found out where he lived a while ago.
For the past two weeks, I’d been driving past his place like a stalker (and, no, this doesn’t officially make me one) just to make sure he still lived there and hadn’t pulled a disappearing act.
He hadn’t. Same car in the driveway, same porch light on at exactly eight like clockwork.
Honestly, routines are a gift. Predictable people were practically easy, and they just needed me to give them a little nudge to accidentally kill themselves.
With my plan on my mind, I leaned forward and twisted the throttle again to let her fly me down the highway as I belted out Unwritten.