Page 163 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

I just need him to hold me.

And he does.

He rubs my back, whispers into my hair, holds me until my body gives out—until exhaustion pulls me under.

Until I sleep, knowing I’ll pay for this later.

Mornings are bullshit.

I'm halfway through my shitty black coffee, cursing at a slow-moving Prius, when I hit Call.

The phone rings twice before she answers, breathless and suspicious.

"What?" Poppy huffs, like I just interrupted her robbing a bank.

She's hyper. Probably running around like a caffeinated squirrel.

"Coffee order," I grunt, steering around some idiot who doesn't know how to merge.

There's a beat of silence—like she's trying to pretend she is not vibrating through the ceiling.

"I'm good," she says, too fast. "I'll get my own."

Bullshit.

I let the silence stretch.

She caves with a groan loud enough to rattle the speaker.

"Fine. Triple-shot iced Americano with light oat milk, one pump toasted vanilla, one pump brown sugar, shaken over ice, topped with cold foam and a dash of cinnamon. Happy?"

"Thrilled," I mutter, and hang up before she can make it worse.

Ten minutes later, I step into the precinct, two coffees in hand, fully ready to punch someone if they even look at me sideways.

I find her exactly where I expected—deep in a manic storm.

I don't say a word. I just set the drinks down.

Mine, basic and black. Hers, pure fucking diabetes in a cup... with a pink straw. Obviously.

She doesn’t even look up.

One hand snatches her drink blindly while the other waves toward the mess of boards and papers.

She's talking a mile a minute, darting between crime scene photos, spreadsheets, and a map full of color-coded thumbtacks like she cracked the Da Vinci Code before breakfast.

The caffeine hits her system before she’s even swallowed her first sip. I can practically see her vibrate at a higher frequency.

Meanwhile, I sip my black coffee like it’s the only thing keeping me from jumping out a window.

Poppy’s mouth runs faster than her brain.

"Okay, okay, listen—phantom LLCs, empty leases, right? But they all use the same accounting firm. And that firm"—she stabs the air with her straw, narrowly missing her eye—"shows up on three closed trafficking cases."

I stand in the doorway, arms crossed, just watching.

The hurricane’s already made landfall. All I can do is survive it.

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