Page 89 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Silence.

Trip’s eyes shift. He licks his lips.

Poppy lowers her voice, gentle but sharp. “We’re not here about you. We know you were there. You saw someone. Or something. And it scared you.”

He cracks.

Just like that.

“Fuck.” Trip slumps forward, arms resting on his knees, face in his hands.

What in the hell kind of voodoo did she just work on him? This prick can sit here playing games for hours.

“Look . . . I didn’t wanna get in the middle of it, all right?”

“Okay. You won’t be in the middle of it.” Poppy folds her arms over her chest and sits on the edge of the desk. Ankles crossed and waiting like she knows he’s about to spill it. And he fucking does.

“The drop was at a new address. I ain’t never dropped there before.” He breathes out heavy through his nose, squinting like it’s painful for him to admit.

“And what did you see when you were there?” Poppy presses like she’s done this a million times—and I realize, she fucking has.

She’s brutal in cross-exams. I testified for her case once but sat in on the rest of the trial to make sure that piece of shit got what he deserved.

Don’t let the Pretty in Pink persona fool you. She’s ruthless.

“This van was already there. A bunch of girls were being led into the house.”

“And what was peculiar about this that you lied?” She keeps him going.

“Because they were all bound and gagged. Blindfolded. Dirty. Some naked.”

My jaw ticks. He says it like he was watching people walk into a store. Not girls held against their will, raped, and left for dead.

He pulls out a cigarette and puts it in his mouth, raising a lighter.

I snap my fingers once. “Don’t be rude, fuckface.” I bark. “Wait until after. Keep going.”

Trip looks at me like he wants me to eat shit, but he turns back to Poppy and keeps going.

“My client said, ‘Bad timing showing up now.’ Told him I didn’t know what he was talking about. I’m at work right now.” Trip starts nodding in agreement like he’s right back there in that moment. “He said, ‘Good. Keep it that way.’”

That’s it. He looks down at his hands, clearly at the close of his story.

Poppy puts her hand on his shoulder with a squeeze like she’s saying thank you.

“I’m going to need that address.”

Isurvived.

I spent the entire day working shoulder-to-shoulder with Declan Blackwood—New York’s hottest homicide detective, emotionally constipated brooder, intimidating menace—and somehow didn’t pass out, hyperventilate, or make a complete fool of myself.

…Okay. Except for one moment.

Declan was deep in a folder of grainy surveillance stills. I reached across the table for my pen when tragedy struck. My elbow hit the corner of my emotional-support iced coffee and sent it toppling.

I lunged like an over-caffeinated ninja and, for a brief, shining moment, thought I had it.

I did not.

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