Page 221 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

UNKNOWN: I like to see you smile.

My traitorous mouth twitches—reflexive, helpless.

I immediately scowl to counteract it and scan the parking lot.

Where is he?

No skull masks.

No brooding bikers.

Just a few precinct workers and a mom wrangling toddlers into a minivan.

POPPY: I only smile for people who don’t walk out in the middle of kissing me.

There. That’ll show him.

Put the stalker in his place.

Oh. Right.

Graham is still here.

UNKNOWN: Touché

“How about dinner tonight?” he asks, flashing teeth a little too white. “I make a mean pasta puttanesca.”

Dexter’s growl cranks up to full Tasmanian Devil.

Teeth bared. Eyes narrowed. Ready for round two.

And because my brain panics under romantic pressure, I blurt?—

“Oh! I have dinner plans tonight.”

But do I stop there?

Of course not.

“Did you know pasta puttanesca was made by sex workers in twentieth-century Naples?”

Silence.

Flat, dead-air silence.

The kind that makes you wish the earth would just open up and swallow you whole.

I want to bash my head into the pavement.

“Anyhoo!” I chirp, scooping up Dexter like my life depends on it. “Gotta get back to work. Talk later!”

Dexter yaps triumphantly, like he’s cheering my exit.

I speed-walk back into the precinct like my hiney is on fire, mentally stuffing that entire interaction into the vault where I keep middle school trauma and every failed first date.

I’m halfway to the bullpen when Declan intercepts me.

File tucked under one arm.

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