Page 287 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Two more traffickers gone and buried—two fewer stains on the earth.

Hank Mayfield was now officially listed aswantedin connection with the trafficking ring, a neat little note in the file that would gather dust until they assumed he’d fled the country to avoid justice.

Alex Matthews, on the other hand, was shuffled into the chaos of the raids—reported as a casualty during a gunfight at another site.

No body to find. They’ll think he was taken to the wrong morgue and likely labeled a John Doe. No one will look for him.

And my Sunshine? My Lollipop?

My beautiful, bloody, perfect girl?

She’s free to slay another day.

After we showered, changed, and ate—because Poppy insisted she couldn’t be expected to function without food—we made it to the courthouse just in time to witness the grandspectacle of Sebastian chasing Dexter across the front lawn, flailing a nearly empty bag of treats like a man facing the apocalypse.

Poppy barely had to raise her voice, calling his name once.

Dexter froze mid-chaos, his snaggletooth pointing at her like a compass finding true north.

She knelt with her arms out and laughed—really laughed—and I swear it was the only sound that mattered in the entire world.

Sebastian staggered up, silk ascot untucked, mopping sweat from his forehead like he was crossing the Sahara.

“Girlie-pop,” he gasped, hand over his heart, “I have to tell you. Your little beast is an asshole.”

He turned to me, arching a single judgmental brow.

“Don’t judge me, Detective Hottie.”

I shrugged, reaching down to pluck the bag of treats from his hand and tossing one toward Dexter.

It bounced cleanly off his snout when he missed the catch and hit the ground with a pathetic flop.

Dexter gruffed at me, staring like I’d insulted his entire bloodline.

“No offense taken,” I said dryly. “He’s a total asshole.”

Sebastian fanned himself, making eyes at Poppy like he couldn’t believe I actually spoke.

“But he grows on you,” I added with a smirk, watching Dexter immediately sit like a perfect angel at Poppy’s feet, begging for another treat like he hadn’t just staged a one-dog rebellion across government property.

Sebastian narrowed his eyes, assessing both of us. Then he smiled—the kind of slow, wicked smile that spelled nothing but trouble.

“Um, diva,” he said, voice pitching into an obnoxiously high sing-song.

His eyes darted between Poppy, then to me, then back to Poppy, his grin practically nuclear.

“You’re forgetting to tell me something.”

Poppy froze.

Sebastian leaned in close, stage-whispering so loudly that I was pretty sure half the courthouse lawn heard him:

“You have a freshly fucked glow about you, girlie. Please—please—tell me Detective Hottie finally broke your dry spell.”

If Poppy could have launched herself into low orbit to escape, she would have.

The shade of pink that flooded her cheeks was spectacular.

---