Page 241 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

But it’s not him.

It’s Graham.

His suit jacket is wrinkled, his tie loose, his smirk slow and far too confident as he strolls into the room.

My stomach tightens instantly.

“I didn’t expect to find you here,” he says, voice low and overly familiar, his gaze dragging across me in a way that makes my skin crawl.

“Saw your name on the sign-in sheet,” he adds. “Thought I’d stop by and say hello.”

There is a heaviness that settles over me all at once, a dreadful kind of awareness that presses against my ribs and makes breathing feel suddenly difficult.

Even the clerk has gone home by now, so it’s just the two of us.

“You always work this late?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, like he’s genuinely curious. “And on Sunday’s?”

The tone is light, but something underneath it makes my heart pound harder.

“I was just leaving,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. “I’m meeting Detective Blackwood.”

The name grounds me, steadies me.

But Graham’s mouth twists, just slightly, as though the name leaves a sour taste behind.

He steps forward—too close—cutting off my path to the door.

“Blackwood, huh.” He repeats the name, drawing it out. “Well, let me walk you out.”

The sharp scent of whiskey hits me before he even finishes the sentence.

Something inside me prickles and sharpens, the way it does when I look into the eyes of a serial rapist and know there is nothing but darkness that lurks inside them.

There’s a split second where I think I can slip past him—duck under his arm, laugh it off, keep things light enough that he won’t follow.

I’m wrong.

Graham shifts, blocking the exit with the casual ease of someone who’s done this before. Someone who knows exactly how to corner prey without making it look like an attack.

My heart kicks hard against my ribs.

I glance behind me for my phone—false hope. My purse, my keys, everything—still sitting neatly at the check-in desk on the other side of the door. An entire room of metal shelves stands between me and freedom.

“Look,” I say, forcing a shaky smile, “it’s been a long day. I’m really not in the mood, okay?”

De-escalate, Poppy. Like every terrible workplace safety video ever told you.

But Graham leans in closer, his breath sour, his smile a slow, curling thing that turns my stomach.

“You dress like you want someone to misbehave. Lucky me.”

I look down. My top is slightly askew from moments ago with Declan.

Graham reaches for my arm. His hand closes around my wrist, fingers tightening.

“Let’s not play dumb, sweetheart,” he says, like we’re sharing some inside joke. “You’ve been begging for this since the plea deal I offered you.”

“Leave me alone, Graham.”

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