Page 7 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

A throat clears behind me.

I don’t need to turn. I know that aftershave and disappointed tension anywhere.

Assistant District Attorney Benjamin Cho steps into view, navy suit sharp, jaw ticking.

He doesn’t speak. Just lifts his hand and jerks his chin.

We step out of the courtroom and he stops just off to the side.

“You heard,” I say.

“Oh, I heard.” His voice is calm like a hurricane’s eye. “Press is already dragging us over the DA’s third mistrial in as many months.”

I flinch. “But those weren’t mine.”

“This one was,” he snaps. “And the evidence disappeared on your watch.”

“It was submitted. It was clean?—”

“Doesn’t matter.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, glasses catching light like a scalpel. “You’re brilliant, Hartwell, but brilliance doesn’t matter if the jury never sees the proof. The media’s calling you a ‘Liability in Lipstick.’ This is serious.”

That one cuts deeper than it should. But I hold my ground.

“I’m not the only one,” I say, steadier than I feel. “Other cases—assaults, murders—they’re falling apart too.”

He pauses. I catch a flicker—doubt or agreement—then it’s gone.

“Maybe.” He straightens his cuffs. “But right now, you’re the headline. I can’t afford more bad press.”

A beat before he continues.

“One more meltdown like this,” he says coldly, “and you’re on parking violations.”

Then he walks away—cool-clean, like he didn’t just cut my future open.

I stay right where I am, Louboutins anchored to the floor like they know I’ll fall if I move.

He doesn’t look back.

And I don’t break.

Not here.

Not yet.

But something inside me begins to crack.

Four days.

Four whole days since a man walked out of my courtroom with a smirk on his face and the full weight of the justice system letting him skip away like it was recess.

I sip from my oversizedIt’s Giving Prosecutorwine glass—rosé, because red felt a little too murdery tonight—and rewind the footage again.

My office is quiet, lights dimmed, heels kicked off under the desk. My fuzzy pink slippers keep my toes warm as I watch a monster on the security tape.

Behind me, from the plush pink chair he’s unofficially claimed in the corner of my office, Sebastian lets out a groan. “Diva, I swear to Dior, if I have to record one more TikTok explaining defamation law because a micro-influencer tagged me in a post, I’m going to sue the internet for pain and suffering.”

“Pretty sure that’s not how any of this works,” I mutter, not looking away from the screen.

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