Page 118 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

The timestamped was hours ago.

Hesawme.

Maybe when Declan carried me. He was the last to touch me—lifting me like I weighed nothing, letting me breathe again.

But earlier—there was also Graham.

I bumped into him and he called mePops.Flirted like I’ll stop turning him down.

That happenedinsidethe courthouse, in a secured floor accessible only by employees with badges.

But Declan touched me there too—pulled me away like a wolf marking territory.

Could Graham have followed us?

Could it be someone else in the DA’s office?

I shake off the spiral as a third message pings:

UNKNOWN: I also don’t like to be kept waiting.

I exhale—sharp. Cold.

Anger replaces fear.

Not today, buddy.

I’ve walked through blood. Held myself together with paperclips and spite.

I’m not here to entertain some delusional man-child with a burner phone and a savior complex.

I type without thinking:

POPPY: Wrong number. There is no Sunny here.

Then I stare at it like I summoned a demon.

Which, honestly, I probably have.

The screen blinks again. Buzzes—impatient.

UNKNOWN: Good girls get rewards. But I love to punish.

UNKNOWN: Are you going to make me punish you, Sunny?

My stomach twists into a stylish, stressed little bow.

I should delete it. Or report it. Or chuck the phone into a storm drain like a normal person would.

Instead, I start typing.

I don’t know what I’m planning—something clever. Something that says:

I am not your Sunny, and if you breathe near me again, I’ll smite you with the justice system and a very aggressive purse.

But before I hit send, the driver’s door yanks open. Declan slides in—still on the phone, voice sharp enough to leave paper cuts.

I nearly drop the flip phone. “Oh my?—”

---