Page 105 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

This isn’t about ego.

It’s about not scraping her body off a crusty fucking floor because she couldn’t take direction.

And I’ll be damned if I let that happen on my watch.

There are times in life when you realize you’ve signed up for something far bigger than you imagined.

This is one of those times.

The raid turned up more than just horror—it gave us everything.

Piles of it.

A digital graveyard of corruption and cover-ups: names hidden under nicknames, initials, case numbers that circle back to other cases I didn’t even know were dirty. USB drives, financial ledgers, photo evidence, raw surveillance.

One of the drives alone contained almost four hundred gigabytes of video interviews—some coerced, some clearly recorded without consent.

It’s a mountain of rot.

And the worst part? We can’t trust anyone to help dig us out of it.

“We don’t send this through proper channels,” Declan said that night, voice flat as he packed the evidence into clearlylabeled, tamper-proof bags. “Not yet. Not until we’re sure who’s clean.”

I didn’t argue. I didn’t have to. It was obvious.

There’s sewage in the department. Too many closed cases that shouldn’t be. Too many open ones that never got the evidence now sitting in plastic tubs beneath a whiteboard covered in my handwriting.

So now… it’s us.

Just us.

Working out of a back room in the planning office of the precinct. We keep the circle tight. Maybe three other people know the full scope of what we found—and that includes Rourke. It doesn’t include my D.A., Benjamin, though.

“You trust Rourke,” I said yesterday. “How long?—”

“No.”

Okay then.

Glad to see Mr. Perky McPerkins of Perksville is back.

We’ve been at it for days.

The walls are covered now—paper trails, photos, strings of names and receipts, grainy screenshots. My evidence board keeps growing, and yes, I do have a post-it system.

Declan hasn’t said a word about it.

He could have. He’s a grumpy homicide detective with a talent for sarcasm and an allergy to compliments. But not once has he rolled his eyes at my color-coded post-it rainbow or my “hot pink = persons of interest” rule.

In fact… I’ve noticed he follows it.

Quietly.

Subtly.

I caught him the other night sticking a mint green post-it under a timeline string for “financial connections,” and it took everything in me not to say something snarky just to hear himgrunt back. He didn’t even look at me. Just kept working. Like my system made sense.

Like it was ours.

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