Page 264 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

I moan, pressing the toy harder against myself.

The pressure crests—my body stiffening, heart pounding.

When it crashes over me, I tip my head back for the sobbing cry that rips free.

My thighs spasm. My vision goes white.

I collapse back against the mattress, panting like my lungs might burst.

The ceiling stares back, blank and uncaring, as I tremble through the aftershocks.

“He’ll know now,” I whisper. “He’ll see it. He’ll know I’m his.”

There’s no coming back from this and I don’t want to.

By the time I pull fresh sheets onto the bed, I almost feel human again.

Almost.

The wound on my thigh throbs, a slow, steady reminder that nothing is truly clean anymore. Nothing is untouched.

I’m smoothing out the last corner of the bed when my phone buzzes on the nightstand. I grab it before the anxiety can take root.

“Poppy Hartwell.”

“This is Officer Matthews. We’ve got a new victim intake at St. Peter’s. She requested a female advocate.”

The call is standard. Expected. A lifeline of normalcy tossed into the storm.

It would be nice if trauma kept business hours, but no such luck.

“I’ll be right there.”

I dress quickly, shove the phone in my pocket, sling my bag over my shoulder, and leave Dexter in charge of security.

The drive is short. Familiar streets blur past in streaks of light and shuttered storefronts.

For the first time in days, my head feels clear. Anchoring myself in someone else’s pain lifts the weight of my own.

I park in the side lot and enter through the ER, nodding at the tired officer behind the desk.

“Room 402,” I tell him, flashing my badge.

It’s nearly three a.m. The guard barely looks up from his newspaper.

The night shift never gets too precious about protocols.

The elevator hums to the fourth floor. Right wing.

Which is odd. Victims don’t usually recover on this side. But maybe they ran out of beds.

The hallway stretches ahead, fluorescent lights dimmed so shadows can stretch longer than they should.

It’s quiet. But not peaceful.

“And not creepy at all,” I mutter.

I find 402 and ease the door open.

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