Page 197 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

If we can’t reestablish surveillance, the whole op folds.

No evidence. No arrests.

“We have a backup transmitter,” one tech offers. “But someone needs to plug it into the main router.”

Christ. Walk in blind. Hope you don’t get recognized by someone you’ve passed in court.

Before I can speak, Poppy’s already moving.

“I’ll go,” she says, rising.

“I remember where the utility closet is.”

“No,” I snap, stepping between her and the gear. “I’ve got it.”

Without waiting for her argument, I grab the transmitter and shut the van door behind me.

Inside, I move fast and low through the brothel, hugging walls and avoiding cracked doors leaking laughter and music.

I find the closet—same hallway where I had to play Mr. Suave with what’s-her-face.

The door creaks open. Slatted wood. Turning on the light would be like lighting up a billboard.

I click on my flashlight, fix it between my teeth, and aim it at the router.

The backup transmitter is warm in my hands, every second ticking louder in my skull.

I crouch low. Start the swap.

Halfway through, footsteps echo down the hall.

“The internet in this shithole pisses me off.”

The voice is getting closer.

Fast.

Coming straight for me.

Shit.

I kill the flashlight and flatten into the shadows, heart pounding so hard I can feel it rattling against my ribs. The footsteps get closer. Too close. I’m cornered.

No clean way out without blowing the whole thing sky-high.

I tighten my fists, ready to drop whoever steps around the corner, when I hear a bright, nervous voice that clenches my stomach like a vice.

“Hello?”

Motherfucking Poppy.

Every hair on my body stands up.

I try to look through the slats and get a terrible view of her standing at the end of the hallway, arms wrapped around herself like a lost lamb.

“Sorry,” she calls, voice wobbling just right. “I’m looking for my friend… herappointmentwas supposed to be over fifteen minutes ago.”

A low male voice answers, suspicious but curious.

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