Page 71 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Predictable.

Rourke flips the folder open and pulls out a stack of photos—high gloss, low morality. Girls posed and staged for sales. Their eyes vacant, their bodies no longer their own.

As soon as the first photo hits the table, Dempsey folds like a paper crane dropped in water and sobs. The man’s a puddle.

Rourke doesn’t blink or raise his voice. Just slides another photo across the table. This one’s different. No lights, no posing. Just a body. Still. Cold. Dead.

“That girl,” Rourke says, his voice all gravel and blade, “you booked her the night before this was taken.”

Dempsey chokes on his own fat tongue. “I didn’t—I swear I didn’t touch her—she was fine when I left?—”

Rourke doesn’t care. “It’s in your phone, Frank. Every appointment. Every name. Every filthy little timestamp. You’re practically begging to get caught.”

I dip a fry in ketchup and watch as Dempsey cracks under pressure like it’s amateur hour at a stress test.

“We can charge you with solicitation,” Rourke continues. “Accessory to murder. Trafficking, if you want to get spicy.”

The guy’s leaking every detail he can remember within three seconds. Twenty-eight minutes later, I’ve finished my burger, cleaned up my fries, and started cataloging the ways this idiot is going to ruin his life with a single word.

Rourke leans back in his chair. “You sure this is everything?”

Dempsey’s nodding so hard I think his vertebrae might shatter. “Y-yeah. I swear—I can tell you who picked her up.”

Rourke’s expression flickers. “What do you mean?”

“The girl. The one in the photo. A cop brought her. Dropped her off. Sat in his car while we—while I—while it happened.”

I sit up straighter.

Rourke narrows his eyes. “You’re saying a police officer delivered her?”

Dempsey nods again, slower now. “He came back. Picked her up after. Same guy. Unmarked cruiser.”

Rourke leans forward. “Who?”

Dempsey freezes. There’s that moment—tight as a piano wire—where fear and obedience wrestle for control.

He picks fear.

“I don’t know if I’m supposed to say?—”

“Say it,” Rourke snaps. “Now.”

Dempsey breathes like he’s about to confess to treason. His voice trembles when it comes.

“Detective Declan Blackwood.”

Everything stops.

“I remember because I thought it sounded cool.”

My stomach turns to stone.

Rourke blinks. “What?”

“That’s the name,” Dempsey gasps. “I saw it on his badge. That’s who dropped her off. Detective Declan Blackwood.”

My name hits the air like a loaded gun, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.

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