Page 226 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

But I can’t.

Not after what she said earlier.

Someone I work with.

And all I can picture is Graham—the smirking bastard circling her like a vulture—waiting for a crack in her defenses.

But what if it wasn’t him?

What if it was me she meant?

I replay every moment—every glance, every hesitation—trying to piece it together like the world's worst crime scene.

When I told her there was someone I was interested in, I practically begged her to walk through that door, to pry, to pick me apart like she does everything else.

She didn’t.

And when she dropped her own comment, I dropped it too—too scared, too fucking wrecked to push.

What if we were both waiting?

I’m so lost in my own head I almost miss it—her phone lighting up beside her.

The text tone of her cell is a sharp little bark.

I glance over, catching the guilt flash across her face like she’s been caught sneaking cookies.

“Did you record Dexter and make him your ringtone?” I ask, grinning.

She bites her lip, trying not to smile, the guilt morphing into something impossibly soft. “Maybe.”

She leans forward, phone tilting toward me—and I catch the name on the screen.

Graham Vexley.

My jaw tightens.

At least it’s not some nauseating shit like Grahamy-Poo or Daddy Graham—because if it was, I’d launch myself out the nearest window.

She scoffs loud enough to make Dexter lift his head and stare.

Rolling her eyes, she slaps the phone face-down like it personally offended her.

Sweet baby Jesus. There might be hope for me yet.

"Not in the Vexley fan club?" I ask, sipping my beer like I’m not fighting a goddamn war inside.

She shifts, angling toward me, one knee bent, her arm stretched along the couch back.

Head propped against her fist, she watches me under a lazy fringe of lashes.

Like she’s getting comfortable.

Like she wants to be here with me.

"Are you kidding?" she says, nose wrinkling adorably. "Graham is disgust-o."

The relief that hits me could launch a thousand choirs.

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