Page 36 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

He’s the only one I’ve managed to keep alive.

I used to overwater. Over-monitor. Hover like a helicopter plant parent until everything wilted out of stress or spite. But this one? I learned to back off. Give it space. Trust that sometimes, survival means letting things breathe.

And look at him now. Thriving.

“Those of us in the legal biz call that an A-1 felony.”

Sebastian pauses. More nodding.

“Well, fifteen to twenty years, girlie-pop.” He looks at me, shaking his head and raising his hand. “Your lip fillers won’t last that long, babe.”

I plop into my chair, already reaching to sort through the stack of envelopes internal mail slid sitting on my desk. I kick off my heels and slide into my cozy fuzzy slippers as I look through the parcels.

Sebastian keeps going with his conversation. “Yes, that is what we want. Multiple men groveling at those diamond-pedicured feet of yours. Not multiple felony charges, so don’t you dare cross the border with those, mkay?”

“Mkay. Yes, brunch when you get back, girl. Mimosas are on you though. Your retainer is almost gone. Okay. Byeeeeee.” He draws out the last syllable ridiculously long before hanging up. “I don’t get paid enough.”

“Sounds fun,” I tease, flipping one envelope to the back of the pile, then another.

A few standard motions, a court update, one demand letter from a defense attorney who clearly thinks he’s the smartest man in the room.

And then . . . something odd.

It’s not in the usual envelope. No seal. No court header.

Just my name on the front. Typed clean and precise.

I turn it over slowly, brows pulling together.

Something about it feels . . . off.

I hold up the envelope between two fingers, not quite touching it. “Did you see who dropped off internal mail today?”

“Mmm, Margot.” Sebastian joins me, peeking at the letters with me. “I wish it were that new clerk. I totally scoped him checking me out Tuesday.”

I put the letter down, grabbing a pair of disposable gloves from my desk drawer.

“Ooh, are your spidey-senses tingling?”

There’s something in my gut. The twisty, electric kind of wrong that doesn’t care about logic, and I always listen to it.

“Looks like it.” I hold it up to the light with a squint.

“That just means you need to get laid, babes.”

I elbow my bestie with a huff.

“You think it’s dangerous?”

“No,” I say quietly. “I think it’s personal.”

I slide a letter opener through the flap, carefully unfolding the single sheet of photo paper inside.

My heart stutters. Freezes.

It’s a picture of me sleeping in my car last night.

There’s no note. No caption. Just the image. Crisp. Clear. Taken from close enough to see the ominous reflection of the photographer in the door’s reflection.

---