Page 225 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

The thought burns through me.

I stare down at my phone, knuckles white, jaw tight.

Trying to breathe past it.

Trying not to show it. But it’s there.

In the tension wound tight in my chest.

In the way my hands clench.

In the way my jaw grinds.

Before I do something reckless, before I ruin everything, I shove up from the table. The chair screeches hard enough to make her jump.

I force my voice steady. Clap my hands once.

"Okay," I say, rougher than I mean to. "Let’s get to work."

Because if I don’t... I’ll end up finding Graham.

And then she’ll see exactly what kind of man I really am.

And there won’t be any coming back.

It’s later now, after a whole damn day of obsessing over this evidence.

Dexter begged for treats no less than twenty times—and Poppy gave in to every single one like he was a dying Victorian child begging for candy.

Not that I can blame her.

When he’s not acting like a miniature linebacker, body-blocking me from sneaking into her room, the little bastard’s actually a decent dog.

Scrappy. Loyal.

And smug as fuck—which somehow fits right in with her.

For the last hour, we’ve been stretched out on the battered leather couch in our second home, picking at greasy Chinese takeout, drinking warm beers, and swapping dumb stories about murderers like we aren’t actively working a literal nightmare of a case.

It feels... good.

Better than good.

It feels fucking perfect.

Like this could be our life if the universe wasn't an asshole.

Us.

Takeout containers.

Her barefoot, half-tucked into my side without realizing it.

Perfect.

And it’s killing me.

Because I want to reach over, pull her into my lap, and kiss her until she forgets every other man who’s ever existed. I want to push her hair off her shoulders, feel her thighs around me, hear that little sound she makes when she loses herself.

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