Page 186 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Poppy snorts too, breaking character with a quiet laugh as the elevator dings.

I shoulder the door open, watching the way the fake annoyance slides off her shoulders like a too-heavy coat.

Real Poppy peeks out again.

God help me, I missed her.

We’re halfway down the hall when Poppy suddenly lights up like it’s happy hour with an old friend.

“Miles!” she calls out, waving at a guy in cuffs being escorted by a court officer.

The man blinks, confused.

I bristle, just for a second. He’s mousy, forgettable, dressed in a rumpled Petorama shirt and walking like he’s allergic toeye contact. Still. Doesn’t stop the flicker of something sharp in my chest until I size him up fully—and decide he’s about as threatening as a deflated pool toy.

“It’s Mark.” The man brightens a little when he spots her. “Hey—how’s the pup liking the new food?”

Poppy grins. “Oh, he’s obsessed. Thanks again for the recommendation.”

He shrugs, awkward in the cuffs. “Glad it worked out.”

She gestures vaguely to the situation. “So… what’s going on here?”

“Oh, I’ve got a lot of speeding tickets,” he says with a sigh.

Her smile falters. “Define ‘a lot.’”

“Eight hundred.”

Poppy’s jaw drops. “Like… cumulative adult life?”

“No. Last year in Chicago. Delivery van for this restaurant. Long story.”

She stares at him, speechless for once, then nods slowly. “You know what? I respect the commitment.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, well. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck, Mason!”

“Mark,” he corrects again, tone patient but dying inside.

She shoots him finger guns. “Right. I knew that.”

We turn down the next hallway, and she mutters into her coffee, “He really should wear a name tag.”

“He was,” I say flatly.

Our clerk sits in holding, sweating through his shirt like it’s a sauna and he’s halfway to confession.

Poppy’s perched beside me outside the interview rooms, papers fanned out, a highlighter clenched in her fingers as she skims the files.

I sip my coffee, watching her from the corner of my eye.

The way her brows furrow when she’s thinking.

The way she twirls the highlighter when she finds something that pisses her off.

Dangerous.

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