Page 170 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

And just like Travis, this man must have left a trail behind him. Girls who fought back and lost.

And what I did made sure he won’t hurt anyone else.

Then I collapsed in the arms of the man who’s been hunting me and let him touch me like I belonged to him.

So yeah. Totally normal day.

I’m currently looking at the dim sum menu, eyes unfocused as I index last night’s memories flashing through my mind all day. The ones I push to the back and forget about.

The ones I bring forward and pretend I’m not replaying.

I toy with the pointed corner of the laminated menu, running it under my thumbnail and wince when I poke it a little too hard.

I focus on the clip art of a cartoon chef’s knife and get a flash of slashing into that man’s chest.

The air thickens in my lungs and the room tilts.

I’m right back there—my driveway last night, knife in hand.

Blood rushing, warm and fast, down my wrist.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, willing the memory to bury itself, willing myself not to drown in it.

Declan’s muffled voice says something—soft, questioning—but it sounds like he’s underwater.

I can’t answer with the knot lodged in my throat.

“Earth to Poppy,” he says, tapping my menu twice. His voice rough with that special brand of gruff he’s perfected.

I blink, dragging myself back into the buzzing fluorescent lights and sticky table.

Back to the way Declan’s watching me like I’m about to break into pieces right there between the spring rolls and the tea set.

I force a bright, brittle smile onto my face and toss the menu down a little too hard, the slap of laminated paper loud enough to earn a few looks from nearby tables.

“I’m fine,” I say, waving one hand like I’m swatting a fly instead of holding back the kind of existential crisis that would make a therapist cry.

Declan doesn’t say anything.

Just leans back in the booth, one arm draped over the back, and he looks too good for it to be legal. The look in his eyes says he knows I’m lying.

Knows it and doesn’t appreciate it—but he lets it slide anyway. Probably filing it away for later.

I pick the menu back up with fingers that are steadier than they should be, scanning it blindly, not seeing a thing.

Because I’m not thinking about dumplings.

I’m thinking about blood.

About a blade dragging through flesh.

About the peace that comes after.

But—I’m fine.

“You pick,” I say, forcing a breezy shrug. “I trust you.”

My cheeks burn as the last three words leave my mouth, and I know I’m blushing. Because Idotrust him.

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