Page 101 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Stubborn to the point of self-endangerment.

And, unfortunately... brilliant.

I should stop her. Drag her back. Remind her of protocol and liability and the part of the warrant that doesn’t mention freelance Barbie storming the perimeter.

But I don’t.

Because—God help me—I want to see what she does. What she finds. How she sees things I’ve missed at other scenes. She doesn’t move like a lawyer. She moves like she’s part of the case already, tangled in it, following invisible threads only she can feel.

And so, I wait. Fuming. Armed.

And completely powerless to stop watching her.

I follow her into the den, jaw tight, eyes sweeping the room for any lingering threat but there isn’t one. The place is empty now, cleared and secure.

But she doesn’t seem to care about safety. Not when there are drawers to open and furniture to interrogate.

Poppy’s already halfway through dismantling a cheap metal desk in the corner, muttering to herself as she pulls out one drawer after another with all the delicacy of a grizzly bear in a locked snack cabinet.

“Careful,” I grunt. “This isn’t a flea market.”

She doesn’t even look up. “If there’s evidence, it’s not going to be labeled neatly in a folder underCorruption: Volumes I–III.” She yanks another drawer, checks the underside, shoves it aside, then pauses at the last one.

I cross my arms. “It’s empty. I just checked that one.”

“Mmhm,” she says, distracted.

She taps it with her knuckles and it sounds—hollow.

She crouches down, already rummaging through another drawer, and pulls out a magnet. Just... finds one. Like she’s a sorceress of office supplies.

“What are you doing?” I ask, not even bothering to hide the skepticism in my voice as I stare down a few uniforms who can’t keep their fucking eyes to themselves.

“Looking for the catch,” she murmurs, running the magnet across the drawer’s surface. “If it’s built like the ones in old customs-seizure desks, there’ll be a metal latch.”

Because obviously, the lawyer who wears hot pink crop tops to field raids also moonlights as a part-time furniture whisperer.

She moves the magnet slightly to the left. There’s a soft click and I blink and hold my breath.

She slides open a thin false bottom, revealing a narrow cavity filled with USB drives, and SD cards. There’s a dust-covered external hard drive that screams dirty secrets louder than any confession I’ve ever dragged out of a suspect.

Well, I’ll be damned.

Poppy leans back on her heels, triumphant. Glances up at me like she’s waiting for the lecture.

Instead, I nod once. “Good job,” I mutter.

She blinks like she’s not sure she heard me right.

Frankly, neither am I.

I should’ve known she wouldn’t stop at the hard drives.

Most people would take the win—evidence found, raid secured, suspects cuffed, paperwork incoming. Not Poppy.

No, she’s still moving.

Still scanning.

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