Page 185 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Poppy pulls in with a fresh rental. Her friend Sebastian parks beside her, the two of them piling out with the kind of energy I’d usually associate with feral raccoons raiding a dumpster.

I sip my coffee, watching from under the brim of my cap, pretending not to notice the slight falter in her step when she sees me.

She hesitates—just for a second—then Sebastian gives her a not-so-subtle shove. I called him this morning and asked him to skip her usual coffee stop.

He doesn’t bother hiding his shit-eating grin as he saunters past, tossing a casual, “Be nice, Detective Danger,” over his shoulder.

I lift the coffee slightly, offering it like a peace treaty.

“Truce?”

She eyes it like it might bite her.

Or worse—make her forgive me too easily.

Still, after a long pause, she takes it.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “For yesterday. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

Poppy blows out a breath, studying the lid like it’s fascinating.

Finally, she nods.

Small. Tight.

“I’m sorry too,” she says. “For . . . being a raging harpy.”

The corner of my mouth twitches, but I wrestle it down.

I jerk my chin toward the courthouse.

“Come on. Your city clerk’s about to shit himself in holding.”

She lifts her chin like she’s aiming for dignity, but there’s a mischievous glint in her eye now.

“Oh, I’ll handle it,” she says, breezing toward the entrance like she plans to go in alone.

“Like hell you are,” I mutter, following.

She glides through courthouse security, smiling and waving at a couple of regular court officers.

Meanwhile, I get the usual stink-eye as I empty my pockets and walk through the metal detector.

Business as usual.

We head toward the elevators, her heels rapping sharply against the floor, when she pulls her phone up and fake-dials with a bright, fake-smile voice.

“Hi, I’m calling the Grumpy-Gurdie hotline,” she says sweetly. “I have a sourpuss to report.”

I grunt, deadpan.

“Why do you dress like a Pepto-Bismol bottle?”

She gasps, glancing down at her pastel-pink pencil skirt and blouse like she’s personally offended.

“This,” she says, full of haughty indignation, “is rosé elegance.”

I snort. “It’s bubblegum warfare.”

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