Page 33 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

After drop-off, I text Benjamin I’ll be in late.

He replies:bring coffee.

I ignore it.

I’m a prosecutor. Not his barista.

By the time I get home, my bladder is full-on rioting and I barely make it to the bathroom.

The mirror shows a woman who lost a fight with granola—and sleep.

But twenty minutes later, I’m showered, dressed, and armed with under-eye patches that are going to work overtime today.

I spritz my custom perfume blend across my neck—one wrist, then the other. Two sprays. Always two.

The scent hits and something clicks into place.

Like flipping a switch from chaos to competence.

This is my battle armor. My signal to my brain that the time for spiraling is over.

The thoughts settle and the panic quiets.

Focus mode: activated.

On my way out, I text Mom a quick good-luck message:

POPPY: Hope your shadow prince brings extra clones today. Tell that crow cousin to stop brooding and get therapy.

She sends back a winking emoji and the wordsChapter fifty-four is getting spicy.

So glad for you, Mom.

The courthouse looms ahead like it always does—all heavy stone and judgment. I climb the steps, already mentally organizing my files for today’s lineup.

And then I hearthatvoice.

Low. Warm. Rough like gravel wrapped in velvet.

“Fuck you, Rourke. Eat dog shit.” He passes me with his phone pressed to his ear, not missing a beat. “Morning, Counselor.”

Holy forearm muscles, Batman.

He spoke to me.

Heactuallyspoke to me.

Warm chills run down my spine, straight through my blazer, short-circuiting every sensible thought I had queued for the day.

Detective Declan Blackwood.

The only thing more unsettling than a stakeout, a knife, and a nearly-missed victim?—

Is him.

I open my mouth to respond—something cool, something sharp.

TGIF, am I right?

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