Page 289 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Right here with her, just like this—I’m home.

When my pink-clad goddess has been well and properly fucked, we get dressed—barely coherent, still smiling like idiots—and head to her mom’s for Sunday dinner.

To absolutely no one’s surprise, her mother loves me right away.

Maybe it’s because I helped fix her crooked mailbox before she even finished introducing herself.

Maybe it’s because I didn’t flinch when she gushed about a shadow-wielding prince and I asked about the physics of the shadow orgy with actual interest.

When she says the words “shadow daddy,” I get several ideas that’ll involve a trip to the adult toy shop.

Over dessert, I’m sitting against the wall flipping through this so-called masterpiece. Poppy perches next to her mom on the couch, clearly building up the nerve to say something.

Her voice is soft when she finally speaks.

“I just want you to know,” she says, “I look up to you. I admire you—for the strength it took to do what you did. To stop him. To protect other girls.”

Her mother’s expression is warm but puzzled.

“You did the right thing, Mom. Even if it was hard. You were brave, and I hope you never regretted what you did.”

Poppy’s voice cracks a little. I see her biting it back.

And I’m just sitting there thinking I shouldn’t be here for such a personal conversation.

She’s talking about her mother murdering a man, for Christ’s sake.

“Hold on, dear.” Her mother looks hesitant. Perhaps suspicious. “What do you think happened?”

Poppy shakes her head at the absurdity of the question, as if her mother should know what she’s referring to.

“Mother, I know youkilledhim.” She whispers the word like it’s a curse.

Her mother pauses—for way too long—and then… laughs.

I stiffen, book frozen mid–page flip.

Poppy looks at me wide-eyed, panic creeping in.

“Oh, honey,” her mom chuckles, waving a dismissive hand. “I didn’t kill him.”

Poppy blinks. Once. Twice.

“What?” she croaks.

Oh my God.

“No,” her mom says brightly, like we’re discussing cookie recipes. “I talked to his mother.”

“His mother?!”

Poppy and I say it at the exact same time.

Her mom nods, settling back with her cup of coffee like she didn’t just detonate the entire foundation of Poppy’s psychological architecture.

“Yeah. He was the son of a judge. Not the one assigned to the case, but one who stuck his nose in where it didn’t belong. I overheard them arguing through the vent in the courthouse bathroom during the trial.”

“A judge,” Poppy repeats faintly, her hands curling into the couch cushions.

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