Page 84 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

They found the body. The blood. The tote. They’re about to offer me the illusion of dignity before hauling me to a cell.

I manage a step. Then another.

One at a time, Poppy. Look innocent. Or at least less murdery.

Declan’s eyes are locked on me—sharp, unreadable, and impossibly green. I force a smile that feels more like a grimace.

“Good morning,” I manage. It comes out barely above a whisper, and I immediately hate myself for sounding like I’m mid-interrogation on a true crime special. “To what do we owe the pleasure of a visit from homicide?”

Benjamin doesn’t return the smile. His expression is tight, unreadable. “Let’s take this to the conference room.”

Oh, gumdrops.

I nod and follow, legs heavy. The moment I sit, I gulp iced coffee until my brain punishes me with a freezing headache. I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to suppress the rising tide of panic.

Tiddlywinks, get it together, Poppy!

Rourke’s the one who starts.

“Miss Hartwell, Detective Blackwood has been leading a covert investigation into a human trafficking network for the past eighteen months.”

My mind races. Trafficking? Is this about Travis? Did they trace something back to him? To me?

He continues, “There’s also a police corruption element we’ve kept quiet. It’s bad. Systemic.”

My thoughts spin wildly, scrambling to connect dots from human trafficking to the violent end I gave a serial rapist on Friday.

Have they linked him somehow?

Did he traffic women?

Am I caught in their net without realizing it?

My pulse pounds painfully in my ears, but I force myself to remain calm, to wait until the needle drops and I know exactly what lie to spin.

“Over the weekend,” Rourke goes on. Oh no. Here it is. “We interrogated an individual who directly implicated Detective Blackwood as involved with trafficking operations.”

Oh, well, never mind.

Declan doesn’t flinch, just folds his arms and waits like this is a waste of his time.

Benjamin steps in. “They need someone sharp to take over point. Someone who can see through half-truths, false leads, missing evidence. Someone meticulous.”

He doesn’t have to say it out loud. He means me.

I swallow thickly, forcing out the question gnawing at my nerves. “What exactly does any of this have to do with me?”

Detective Blackwood finally speaks, and suddenly, I’m lost in his voice, a dark, rich timbre that sends an uninvited—but very welcome—shiver down my spine. “I can't exactly investigate a case in which I’m a suspect. Wouldn’t go over very well at trial, don’t you think?”

All right, Mr. Grumpy Pants. No need for the dramatics.

“And if I say no?” I ask, wary.

“You don’t really have a choice.” Benjamin takes over. “Internal Affairs has opened a formal query into your handling of the mistrials.”

The words hit like a slap.

“What?” I jolt upright. “You’re serious?”

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