Page 37 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

He was there watching me.

“Poppy.”

Sebastian’s voice slices through the office, all the humor gone. “What the hell is this?”

He’s holding the photo. Me, asleep in my car, pita chip bag under my face like a sad little pillow. His jaw ticks. Once. Twice.

“You were watching Mariela’s building?”

“Yes,” I say flatly. “Since no one else would.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “You fell asleep. In the dark. Alone. And—let’s be honest—mid-drool.”

I open my mouth to protest, but there’s nothing to defend.

He exhales. “You know I joke because I love, but that photo? It’s not just proof he’s watching Mariela. It’s proof he’s watching you.”

That lands harder than I want to admit.

“And I can’t lose you, babe. Not to some bargain-bin psychopath with a God complex and drugstore cleanser.”

I slide the photo into a sleeve, swallowing down the burn in my chest.

“Now we go smarter, not harder,” he says, calmer now. “Pull on those loose threads and figure this out. Something’s wrongin the system—cases falling apart, evidence vanishing. That’s not random.”

I nod.

Sebastian squeezes my shoulder. “Build your case like your life—and hers—depends on it.”

He grabs his coffee, kisses the top of my head, and heads out.

The silence he leaves behind is louder than any lecture.

I stare at the photo again.

My face peaceful. Asleep. Unaware.

He was there, watching.

And he wanted me to know it.

I’m winding down for the night, just finishing my skincare routine with the kind of careful attention that makes me feel like I’ve got something under control.

A few drops of serum, a swipe of retinol, moisturizer that I’m certain is actually a magical potion.

I reach for my hair wrap, fingers poised to twist and secure it for tomorrow morning’s heatless curls, when my phone dings from across the counter.

MARI: Hey Poppy, I just wanted to thank you for all you’ve been doing.

No emojis. No punctuation. No context.

Just a single, quiet line that lands with more weight than it should.

My thumb hovers over the keyboard, but I don’t type a reply. Not yet.

Something about the message doesn’t sit right with me—not because it’s ungrateful or strange, but because it’s... final.

Today has been strange from the start.

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