Page 190 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

“And in County, there’s this guy named Big Mike and he doesn’t take too kindly to inmates that commit kiddie crimes.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Big Mike needs a new cellmate, I hear.”

“I didn’t know!” He yell-sobs now. “At first—I didn’t know what they were doing at first. But then I couldn’t get out. They—they blackmailed me. I have gambling debts.”

The attorney has picked himself off the floor and joins the conversation, flapping uselessly. “We want a deal.”

Poppy doesn't budge. “Depends how good the intel is,” she says, crossing her legs primly like she’s not threatening to light this man’s life on fire. “Make it worth my while.”

Fucking hell.

She’s fire wrapped in pink silk, and I’m burning alive over here.

The clerk breaks, and it’s fucking ugly.

Tears. Sweat. Snot.

But he talks. Doesn’t shut up, as a matter of fact.

“There’s an auction,” he gasps. “Underground. They—Jesus—they bring girls in. Sedate them. Brand them. Sell them to the highest bidder.”

My blood runs cold. I’ve seen the pictures of the girls. Brands seared into the arm to mark them like merchandise.

“When’s the next one?” I ask, voice cutting through the panic like a blade.

He hesitates.

I tighten my grip on his shoulder.

“Soon,” he whines. “This weekend. They move it around but—but I might know where they’re setting up next.”

I glance at Poppy, and she nods. Interview is over. He can give the rest to his attorney because the storm’s coming.

And we’re going to be right at the center of it.

I’m setting my files down on the nearest desk, still buzzing from the interrogation, when Graham slinks up like a bad idea with expensive teeth.

Declan is handing our clerk off to a uniformed officer, but the second he spots Graham, he rolls his eyes so hard I’m amazed they stay in his head.

“You’re a piece of work, Pop,” Graham says, like it’s charming.

Declan joins me, sitting on the edge of the desk—close enough that his arm brushes mine. I don’t move away.

“Poppy,” he says, voice low enough to frost glass.

The air tilts and Graham blinks.

“Excuse me?”

I blink too.

Declan repeats it, slower this time. Patient. Dangerous.

“Her name–is Poppy.”

I sip my iced coffee, pink straw and all, enjoying the live testosterone drama like it’s theater and I’ve got front-row seats. I could step in. But why ruin the show?

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