Page 237 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

After the detectives left, I couldn’t stay home. The walls pressed in, and the quiet started to sound like judgment.

Declan texted me, and my heart shuttered.

I don’t know what to say. That I want him but I’m having an affair with a stalker?

So I got dressed, silenced both phones, and headed to the courthouse, hoping the weight of law and order might balance the chaos in my chest.

It’s nearly nighttime. The building is practically empty, save for the low hum of fluorescents and the occasional flicker that makes me feel like I’m starring in a low-budget horror film.

I walk slowly through the evidence room, fingers trailing dusty bins and manila folders. I’m supposed to be pulling files for the trafficking case, but my mind is elsewhere—hunting for something I know should be here.

My mother’s case file.

It was here. I’ve seen it.

“Where in the cinnamon toast crunch is it?” I whisper, walking the rows of forgotten boxes.

Nothing. No record.

Concern builds fast. Why would someone pull her case?

A soft thud from a few aisles over makes me freeze. My head whips toward the sound, heart slamming into my ribs.

“Hello?” I call, voice wobbling.

Silence.

I move down the rows, the scent of dust and cold metal sharp in my nose. Every step sounds like a gunshot.

I turn sharply at another faint noise. Nothing. Just shadows.

“Stop it,” I mutter. “You’re imagining things.”

But my hands are shaking as I shove another box aside.

And that’s when I nearly scream.

Declan rounds the corner—all calm, casual menace—scaring the ever-loving cannoli out of me.

“Jiminy Christmas!” I shriek as the box lid slips and smacks the floor.

Declan smirks, far too pleased with himself.

Why does he have to be so attractive?

“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” he says, leaning my dog stroller against a shelf like some smug urban knight. “Thought I should return Dexter’s abandoned chariot.”

I pick up the lid, brushing hair from my face.

“The last few days have been rough. You okay?”

I alphabetize a few files. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re pretending you’re fine. Big difference.”

He moves closer, slow and deliberate. Not threatening—more like gravity.

I shift, resting my hip against a table, feigning boredom. “You gonna psychoanalyze me now, Detective Blackwood?”

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