Page 243 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

My hands clutch the steering wheel like it might anchor me, like it might stop the shaking.

It doesn’t.

My pulse thrums at the base of my skull, hot and panicked, and for a moment, all I can do is squeeze my eyes shut and pray the roaring in my ears will fade.

Some instinct—some deep, primal pull—makes me lift my gaze. Makes me look back at the building.

Back at the window where I feel his eyes on me.

Graham smirking, a trail of blood smeared down his face.

Watching me like I’m the punchline to some sick joke.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t come after me. He just stands there, and my stomach rolls at his stillness.

I grab my phone with shaking fingers, tapping the screen so hard I nearly miss the button.

Call one: Declan.

Straight to voicemail.

“No,” I beg under my breath, trying not to cry, trying not to spiral. “Please, Declan.”

Call two: Declan.

Voicemail.

Again.

This time, I whimper. A pathetic, broken sound that shreds what little pride I have left.

In pure desperation, I yank my burner phone from my tote with trembling hands.

I hit the call button, and it barely rings once before he picks up.

“Poppy,” his voice says, low and urgent.

And just like that—like flipping some invisible switch—I shatter.

The tears come hot and unstoppable, my words tumbling out in a breathless, broken mess.

“He—he tried—he touched me—I ran—I—I?—”

My breath hiccups against the sobs clogging my throat.

His voice changes instantly. Sharp and dark. Furious in a way that vibrates through the tiny speaker and makes me want to curl into it, to wrap myself in it like armor.

I hear the roar of an engine in the background.

“Who,” he snarls. “Who the fuck touched you?”

I hiccup again, wiping at my eyes.

“I’m okay—I got away. I just— It was Graham. This guy I work with. He ripped my shirt. He was going to?—”

My choked sob cuts off the rest of my words.

Silence on the line. The kind of silence that promises very bad things.

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