Page 116 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

His lieutenant crackles in his ear while his thumbs move nonstop—texting, emailing, dispatching whatever homicide detectives handle in the first hour of a corpse.

Then people start arriving.

Slow at first. Then a rush. Uniforms. CSI. Coroner. A crime scene inflating in real time. Yellow tape is strung like party decorations for institutional betrayal.

And the neighbors? Thrilled.

Kids suck popsicles on the porch like it’s a Netflix special.

I should be thinking about evidence.

Who processed the warrant. Who had access.

But all I can see is the wordRATwritten in blood.

And Trip’s head tilted—like he’d tried to lift it one last time.

I glance in the rearview mirror.

Declan is still there.

Still stone.

And I wonder how long I can keep pretending I’m not unraveling.

Because back there, I didn’t see Trip.

Not at first.

I saw Travis Gannon.

His throat torn, blood pouring down his shirt. Eyes wide open, staring as he pointed at me.

And the blood didn’t say RAT.

It said MURDERER.

I froze.

I was back in the warehouse. The stench. The silence. The awful knowing:

I didn’t stop a crime—I ended a life. Took something I can’t give back.

I slipped into the void until hands gripped my shoulders.

Until I was buried in the warm, solid crook of Declan’s neck, holding on like it was the only thing keeping me afloat.

The scent of him—clean, steady, cedar and something darker—wrapped around me like armor. Like gravity.

I buried the panic, deep and quiet, where no one could see.

Two knocks on the window nearly launch my water bottle like Old Faithful.

Declan stands outside, unimpressed by my jump scare.

No apology. Just holds up a business card and jerks his head.

The man communicates in two expressions: annoyed and slightly more annoyed.

---