There was no warning at all.

  The red silk dress hung limply in my hand—unexpectedly soft to the touch, a rare good find during an off-season clearance.

  Just as I was halfway out of my sweater, the fabric pulled over my head and blocking my sight, I heard something buried beneath the rustle of cloth. Screaming. Too loud even for a Thursday night in a shopping mall.

  All I wanted was to crack open the fitting room door and take a look outside. But the moment I unlocked it, he barged in—crashing into me, I think, slamming me into the wall? My whole body ached too much to be sure.

  I’m not a good person. Maybe I’ve done a lot of wrong things. But I didn’t deserve this.

  The blood was thick and sticky—I could barely keep pressure on my thigh. I could only pray it hadn’t hit an artery. There was so much of it. I didn’t know how much of it was mine, how much was his… I just really hoped he was dead.

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  Maybe it was the blood loss, maybe the adrenaline, but I couldn’t feel the pain from the stabbing. I even found myself mourning my jeans—blue and white color-blocked denim, expensive, barely worn twice, now ruined.

  Fuck. That psycho wasn’t even dead. He looked livelier than I did. I saw him in the fitting room mirror, grabbing the knife that had slipped to the floor. His eyes were glowing red—like the red-eye flash in old film photos. He staggered toward me, mumbling something short and broken. Whatever he was trying to say, the words were warped by the blood bubbling up in his throat. I couldn’t make out the language, but it wasn’t English. It wasn’t Chinese either.

  Jesus. This was all insane. From here on out, I honestly don’t remember exactly what happened next.

  I just knew I had to make sure he was dead before he could do anything else.

  That’s what I told the police—along with some hesitation, confusion, and a lot of choking sobs.