I'm completely worn out.

My energy is the lowest it's been in months. The police asked questions and investigated the crime scene for over two hours. They told me to call my mom, who was surprised to discover I was at the buffet. I told her that I was hungry so we stopped off to get some study fuel. They tried to recreate the scene, and I'm glad it took Mom time to arrive so she didn't hear me talking about meeting a boy there. We don't mention the dating app, though I don't know if that's the right or wrong decision. Part of me thinks it's a bad move since they're going to check his phone.

Panic is bubbling inside me. Isaac died from electrocution. There was a tiny electrical pod inside the sink. When he turned the faucet on, he was electrocuted. I was the last person to enter the bathroom.

Could I have put the electrical pod there? I don't remember doing such a thing. Wouldn't I remember?

But then again, I was in the bathroom right before he was. I would've seen the pod in the sink, wouldn't I? And no one else entered after me. There's no other explanation. And plenty of other people used the bathroom before that and didn't get hurt. It was only when I reentered the bathroom to get my purse that that happened.

I'm sitting in the car, leaning against my arm which is propped against the window. My head hurts. Tears trickle down my cheeks, carving rivers into my raw skin. Mom glances in my direction every so often. Rain drizzles on the car, and the windshield wipers wipe the water away. I need windshield wipers for my face.

We stop at a traffic light right before turning into our development. Mom turns to me.

"How are you doing, sweetie?"

"Not great." A humorless, crying laugh breaks from my lips. I shake my head, staring out at the water-logged sidewalk. "I can't believe this."

"Me neither." Mom shakes her head. "Three times."

"Three times." So much for the third time's the charm.

The light turns green, and Mom makes a left-hand turn into our development. We round the corner, driving past the large houses on either side of the street. Water drenches the green lawns, stirring up mud and pooling on the sidewalks. Puddles splash as we drive through them and spray onto cars and mailboxes on the side of the road.

At last, our house comes into view. I'm ready to go inside and drown myself in music and tears. I need something to stifle the anxious thoughts pressing against me on all sides.

There may be another explanation.

I keep repeating this in my head. But deep down, I wonder what else could explain my presence at three murders. Sure, I could be framed. But that's more far fetched than me being a serial killer. No, there's a much simpler explanation. One I despise, yet have to come to terms with.

My head drops against the window. Pain ricochets through my skull from the impact.

I'm a serial killer.

I want to scream. I don't want this to be me, but it is. It is who I am. It is who I will ever be. A killer. A monster.

It isn't certain.

Give it a few days for the police to investigate. Then, they will draw the same conclusion as me, based on cold hard evidence. I'll be sent to prison, behind bars the rest of my life, as I should be. That's all I deserve. I deserve to be there right now.

I am a monster.

The garage door whirs open. As Mom drives inside, I unzip my purse to get my phone...

My hands freeze on the zipper mid-zip. All I see is green inside my bag.

"Mom..." I say in a shaky voice. "Mom..." Panic is rising, threatening to close in.

There's cash in my purse. It's not in my wallet. It's just stuffed inside my bag. With shaking fingers, I remove the wad of crumpled bills, ones, fives, twenties.

"Mom..."

Mom looks over. Her eyes widen. "What's that?"

"I... I-I don't know." Mom doesn't give me cash. I don't really have cash. I never carry cash around with me. Hands trembling, I lift the last few bills from my bag. B elow, I see something that makes my heart shudder to a stop.

"Mom!" I scream.

"What is it?" She leans over and gasps. My fingers hover over a prescription bottle. I raise it from the bag, fingers trembling so much, the bottle slips from my grasp. It hits the seat and rolls toward my upper thigh. I reach for it, but Mom's hand whips out and clutches my wrist.

"Don't touch it," she whispers. Her eyes are dark, intense, penetrating, staring me into a frozen state. Behind those eyes is years of power, years of experience as an investigator.

"Why?" I meet her gaze, and the tears glistening in her eyes answer for her. Fingerprints. "Mom, I have to know what prescription it is."

"No. No you don't."

"Yes, I do." My other hand drops the cash in my purse and grabs the bottle. "I've already touched it. My fingerprints are already on it." The outside of the bottle has the name "Evan Barnes" printed on the label. Below, it says "xanax." I hold it up to Mom. Fear is pulsing through my body, jolts of electricity, just like the shock wave Isaac experienced.

"Where did you get that?" Mom asks. A fearful quiver worms its way into her voice.

"It was in my purse."

"How did it end up there?"

I swallow, then wrench my hand free of her grip. Her fingers have gone slack, so it's pretty easy to do. "I think we both know the answer."

"No." Mom shakes her head. "I don't believe it."

I swallow. "You have to. For your own safety, you have to."

Mom shakes her head more fervently. "No. Madelyn, you are not a killer."

"Where else would I have gotten all this money?" I yell. "It had to have come from the victims. They were all missing cash, including Isaac, today's victim. I went into the bathroom right before he did. There's no other explanation."

"There's always another explanation."

"Not this time. It's time to face the truth. I'm a danger to everyone around me."

Oh gosh. I'm a menace to society. My gaze drops to my hands, my trembling hands. I ball my fingers into fists.

I have to get out of here, confine myself, stay away from everyone else before something more happens. I can't chance myself lashing out again.

"Madelyn, you're not—"

"Yes, I am!" I scream. "I'm a killer, a murderer! And you need to stay away from me before I hurt you as well."

I race from the car, into the house. The door slams behind me. I'm halfway up the stairs when Mom races in after me.

"Madelyn, wait!"

I continue bounding up, two stairs at a time. Adrenaline propels me forward. I'm running, trying to outrun all my fears, my nature. I'm a killer by nature. Three victims are dead already. Oh, why do my fears have to be true?

"Madelyn!" Mom calls again.

I slam the door to my room and lock it, flinging myself onto my bed. Sobs wrack my chest. I have to keep everyone away. Everyone has to stay away. If I'm this oblivious to what I'm doing... no one is safe.

Am I safe?

A fresh wave of terror crashes through me. My thoughts are a jumble.

The door handle shakes. Mom calls out, "Madelyn, sweetie, this isn't your fault."

"Go away!" I yell into my pillow. Tears come hot and fast down my face.

"Madelyn, open the door."

"I don't want to hurt you!"

There's silence for a moment, aside from my tears and wracking sobs. Then, I feel a hand land on my back through my sweatshirt. I leap off my bed, scurrying into the corner of my room.

"Stay back," I say. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Madelyn—" Mom takes a step forward.

"Stay back!" I'm panting, drinking in the suffocating air. My eyes fall to the laptop on the floor, the outlet I'm standing beside. I rip the lamp and computer plugs from the wall.

"Madelyn!"

"I can't electrocute you," I cry.

"You won't electrocute me," Mom says.

"I might. I did. Isaac is dead, and it's all my fault." I sink to the floor, burying my face in my hands. Then my gaze jolts up. "Mom, you have to leave. Please, you must. You must leave before I hurt you."

"Madelyn—" She steps forward, but I shrink back against my door. I'm sobbing huge, body-shuddering sobs, lungs hyperventilating.

A memory crashes into me, blending reality with the past.

I'm lying in bed, late at night. The room is dark, not even the light of the moon shines through my window. Fear's icy claws have sunk deep in my heart, which beats faster, faster, faster...

Is that someone nearby? Do I sense human energy crossing into my sensation sphere?

Heat teeters on my skin, on the verge of igniting my arms, my spine.

Then, energy glows up my arms right before the door creaks open. I scream, grabbing my small, battery-operated clock from my desk and chucking it toward the outline of the open door.

Mom yells out. The overhead light flicks on, brightening the room. Slowly, my pulse descends before ramping back up. Mom's fingers clutch her face, behind which I can only see red, angry skin. Blood stains the skin between her fingers.

"What's the matter?" Dad asks, running into the room. This is one of my only memories of him.

"It's nothing," Mom says, wincing in pain.

"Let's get some ice for that."

"Mom, I'm so sorry." My voice cracks as my world spirals out of control. I've hurt someone. This lurking, growing fear isn't a figment of my imagination. It is real, a real threat. I just hurt my mom.

"Mom, I'm so sorry," I whisper as the door closes.

My eyes settle on the scar above her eyebrow. The doctors did a good job with the stitches, but she is forever marred — because of me. If I hurt my own mom, who knows what else I am capable of.

Mom's fingers seem to follow my gaze to her eyebrow. She shakes her head, sinking to her knees. "Oh, Madelyn. It was an accident. You know that, don't you? I would've done the same thing in your position. You were scared, anyone would be if they found an intruder in their room. You were just acting in self-defense. I'm proud you had the courage to stand up for yourself. That's what we're trained to do on the force."

I tremble, every muscle convulsing with fear.

"Do you want me to call Amber?" Mom asks gently.

I shake my head. "I can't hurt any more people." I meet her gaze. "Please, Mom," I plead. "Please leave before it's too late."

Mom crawls across the floor to sit beside me. I scoot as close as I can to my bookcase, but pressed up against it, there's nowhere else to go. I clench my fingers into fists, tucking them under my shirt so I don't lash out. Mom grabs me in an embrace. She holds me tightly, as tight as my fists.

"You can't even go near a knife without panicking. You unplug lamps out of abundance of caution. What makes you think you could willingly harm another person?"

Mom's hands stroke my hair. I want to enjoy their warmth, their comfort, their promise that everything will be alright. But I can't. Relaxing is letting my guard down, loosening the reins on this terrible, monstrous part of myself.

"There's too much evidence against me," I whimper. "It's all my fault." I try to pull back, but Mom won't let me. "Please, leave me Mom. Let me pay the punishment for my crimes," I say, trying one last time to reason with her.

I feel Mom's head shake against me. "Madelyn, I'm not leaving you. We're family, and family sticks together. Just watch and see. You won't harm me. You are innocent."

Tears drip from my face onto her neck. I want so desperately to believe her. But there's too much against me.

Could there be any other answer?