Page 117 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

I roll the window halfway down. “Am I being served?”

“Send this to my lieutenant.” He hands me the card. “From your notes.”

Rourke’s name and email.

On the back:Judge? Clerk?

I nod, reach for my phone?—

And see the flip phone glow.

1 New Message

I freeze.

Declan’s still there, one hand on his hip, watching the street.

My stomach clenches. I force my voice steady. “Sure. I’ll email him now.”

He grunts, turns away, snapping at two kids near the police tape.

He yells across the street something about staying away from the scene and all I can think of is that old guy in the movie grumbling:

Stay off my lawn.

I fumble with the email app through the blurry screen. My thoughts everywhere, and none are useful.

Declan notices. Detective mode activates like he spotted a bloodstain on white carpet.

He circles to the driver’s side and reappears with cookies.

“It’s a lot,” he says. Not quite gentle, but less clipped. “A snack will help.”

I take them like they’re life support.

“Thanks.”

He thinks I’m rattled from the body.

Thinks he’s giving me permission to fall apart.

He has no idea it’s notthatbody I keep seeing—but another. Or that someone dangerous knows—and has fixated on me.

After a few more stabs at the screen, I finally hit send. “Okay, sent.”

He nods, distracted, and keeps walking.

Phone to his ear, voice sharp. I think I hear him say Benjamin—my DA—and I’m drying to hear if it’s accusatory.

I open the flip phone.

UNKNOWN: I don’t like his hands on you.

UNKNOWN: I don’t like anyone’s hands on you, Sunny.

My fingers tighten around the device.

I read it again—slower, even though I understood it the first time.

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