Page 98 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Who’s responsible? This girl.

I jog toward the cluster of unmarked vehicles just outside the staging area, trying not to look too excited even though I’m practically vibrating. I’ve never been part of the actual raid before.

I’m always on the courtroom side of things—clean hands, controlled chaos, caffeinated arguments. Not boots on the ground with search warrants, bulletproof vests and intense eye contact.

This is veryCriminal Minds–adjacent, and I’m thriving.

Well. Iwasthriving until Declan sees me.

He steps away from the van, instantly frowning like he just spotted a cat on a leash—confused, offended, maybe mildly intrigued against his will.

“What–are you wearing?” he asks flatly, giving me a once-over that lingers a little too long on the crop top.

I tug the hem down in solidarity with my dignity. “It’s tactical spandex. Courtroom edition.”

“You’re not coming.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not coming on the raid.”

“Oh, I am absolutely coming on the raid. I got the warrant. I’m in leggings. This is happening.”

“This isn’t a coffee run, Hartwell. It’s a warrant execution. Active field op. You’re a prosecutor.”

“And,” I counter sweetly, “you’re my partner.”

His eyes narrow. “I am not your partner.”

“Well, not with that attitude.” I gesture broadly to the team gathering behind him. “Look, we’re all adults here. We have a warrant. We have a target. We have a window. What we don’t have is time for your weird control issues.”

Declan mutters something under his breath—probably a prayer for strength or a list of synonyms forwhy me—and then runs a hand down his face.

“This isn’t protocol,” he says finally. “You don’t come into the field.”

“Normally I don’t. But normally I’m not investigating a department full of possibly dirty cops, helping unravel a trafficking ring, and trying to find out who is framingyourpatootie.” I smile, teeth showing. “So, I’m feeling very outside the box today.”

He glares.

I do not blink.

“This isn’t safe.”

Nothing in my life has been safe lately.

But I don’t say that.

“But this is important, Declan.” I ignore the feeling of my cheeks heating up having said his first name and not “Blackwood.” But I keep going and pray he doesn’t notice. “I almost just lost my last client because I couldn’t get the guy. Let me come help these girls.”

There’s a long, strained pause where I can see the wheels turning in his broody homicide detective head. I’m fullyprepared for him to pull rank, call my supervisor, or duct-tape me to the side of the courthouse.

Instead, he lets out a rough exhale through his nose and steps aside.

“Stay behind me. No wandering. You don’t speak unless I say you can. And if anything even sniffs like danger, you stay in the vehicle. Got it?”

I salute with two fingers and the most obnoxious grin I can manage. “Copy that, partner.”

He grumbles again, but I swear—I swear—his mouth twitches at the corner before he turns away. He could have burped, but I think I’m growing on him.

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