Page 164 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

She finally stops, chest heaving, cheeks pink, waiting for me to shoot her down.

"All right." I take another sip. "Let’s check it out."

Poppy blinks at me like I just sprouted another head.

"Wait. Seriously? That easy?"

"If it’ll shut you up for five minutes," I grunt, pushing off the doorframe, "I'll follow the goddamn string theory to Mars."

She laughs—bright, startled—and grabs her files, her tote bag, and her absurdly complicated coffee.

I don’t think she’s ever laughed at something I’ve said. Not like that.

As she scurries after me in her too-high heels, I hear the inevitable stumble behind me.

I don’t even glance back. Just shake my head.

"Fucking menace."

And the worst part?

I’m smiling when I say it.

The day starts like every other good idea I’ve ever had—bad coffee, bad traffic, bad instincts about what’s waiting for me.

Poppy's buzzing in the passenger seat like someone mainlined espresso straight into her carotid. She’s half talking to herself, half talking to me, and somehow carrying three conversations I’m not invited to.

First stop: a juice bar in Crown Heights.

The place is clean. Too clean. Like it’s been staged for an Instagram photoshoot that never ends.

Poppy bounds out, clipboard in hand, bright and chipper, like we’re here for a bake sale.

Meanwhile, I’m dragging behind her like the Grim Reaper’s unpaid intern.

We do a walk-by, ask a question or two.

The books are squeaky. Staff’s clueless or high on cold-pressed enlightenment.

Not worth flipping.

Back in the car, Poppy’s tapping her pen against her knee like a telegraph machine.

Second stop: wellness spa in SoHo.

New-age hellscape. Crystals everywhere. Whale noises.

One of the workers offers me a "grounding aura cleanse," and I have to restrain myself from committing a felony.

Nothing shady here either.

Poppy leaves with a pamphlet and concerning enthusiasm about rose quartz.

I leave with a migraine.

We’re about to call it when we hit the last stop:

A "counseling center" tucked between a yoga studio and a boutique that sells four-hundred-dollar leggings to trust-fund babies.

---