Page 106 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Yesterday, I found his blackmailer.

Someone by the name of Matthews moonlights as a cop, arrests girls for bogus things. They’re put in the back of a cop car and never seen again.

With Declan’s name cleared, I thought they might take me off the case and let him take it back fully—but alas, here I am.

We’ve been pulling late nights now. Back to back to back. Cups of half-drunk coffee scattered across the table. Cold takeout containers shoved to one side. The kind of silence that isn’t awkward—just focused. Comfortable, somehow.

Declan’s usually hunched over something when I glance up—some file, some photo, always scowling like the paper is refusing its Miranda rights.

I’ve stopped trying to fill the silence. I’ve learned how he works. And I think he’s learning how I work, too.

The more I watch him here, the more I realize something terrifying:

We make a good team.

Like, suspiciously good.

And if that thought makes my stomach flutter in a way that is both inconvenient and highly unprofessional—well. I’m choosing to ignore it. For now.

Unfortunately, someone is doing everything in his glittery, chaos-wielding bestie magic to make sure I don’t ignore whatever… this is between me and Detective Blackwood.

Which is totally nothing. Nothing going on between us. I mean, why would there be?

Sebastian and I usually arrive at the courthouse together. That’s our thing. Two caffeinated icons striding in like we own the building. He brings coffee; I bring legal fire. It’s coordinated.It’s consistent. It’s what best friends who spend a lot of time enabling each other’s chaos do.

But this particular morning?

Declan showed up too.

Right as Sebastian was handing me my iced coffee with an extra shot of judgment, the homicide detective from my spicy dreams strolled up like a six-foot-something grump in black and stood next to me like it was the most natural thing in the world.

So, of course, Sebastian pounced.

The flirting started immediately. Borderline restraining-order levels of flirtation.

“Detective,” he purred, dragging the word out like it was made of honey. “Sebastian Elias Tréviot Ignatius Blaire the Third,” he said with a flourish, like the name itself should come with fanfare and a spotlight. “Pleasure.”

Declan gave a very serious nod and a tip of his coffee. Probably black with two pumps of grumpy.

“You’re even taller up close. Is that bulletproof vest standard issue or are you just happy to see me?”

I nearly choked on my coffee. In fact, some did come out my nose.

Declan didn’t flinch. Just looked ahead as we walked. That deadpan stare he’s perfected that makes grown men stammer and hardened criminals forget their names.

Sebastian thrived.

“What’s your name?” he asked, eyes sparkling with menace.

Declan sipped his own coffee with a look that said,We all know you know my name, but he answered anyway. “Blackwood.”

“Oh, we’re doing last names? Mysterious. I like it.” He leaned closer. “Married?”

Declan said nothing. Just gave him a slow, unimpressed look like the question didn’t even deserve oxygen.

Sebastian took that as a maybe.

“Girlfriend?” he tried.

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