Page 114 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

The second I see her, everything else disappears.

She’s frozen.

White as a sheet, eyes wide and glassy. One hand half-raised, the other covering her mouth.

Goddammit.

That smell...

There’s something about a body baking in summer heat. It clings to your nose, your clothes, your memory. One hit of that rot and it stays with you forever.

I don’t need a second look.

A glance at the side of the house confirms what I knew the moment I heard her gag.

Trip’s body slumps between two trash cans. Throat cut. Brown blood caking the front of his shirt.

A message on the wall in blood:

“RAT”

Something’s tacked to the wall—flesh, maybe.

Her eyes stay locked on the body, but she’s gone—checked out, halfway to shock.

I reach her and grab her shoulders.

“Poppy,” I say. “Look at me.”

Nothing.

No twitch. No response.

Fuck this.

I scoop her up—arms under her knees and back. She doesn’t resist. Doesn’t speak. Just folds into me like she weighs nothing.

She shudders and whispers against my neck:

“That was his tongue… wasn’t it?”

My jaw tightens.

“Yeah.”

She clings tighter, like she’s trying to crawl inside my skin.

Her breath hitches, sharp and shallow.

“I’ve got you,” I murmur. “Just hang on to me.”

She does.

I carry her to the SUV. She doesn’t move, doesn’t let go. Just buries herself in my neck.

I open the door, ease her into the passenger seat, and grab a cold water bottle from the cooler—habit from too many crime scenes.

“Here.” I press it into her hands. “It’s cold.”

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