Page 85 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

He nods once. “The errors, the suppressed evidence—someone filed a report. I have to pull you from active litigation until it’s resolved.”

“You know that’s cow doodie.” I smack my hands on the table like I can intimidate this investigation to end on the spot.

“I don’t disagree. But this investigation—if we can trace the corruption, it might explain those anomalies. Maybe even clear your name.”

I breathe hard through my nose, grounding myself.

My eyes inadvertently shift back to Detective Blackwood, who watches me closely.

Those vivid green eyes, irritatingly dreamy even in the midst of criminal allegations and disciplinary committees, threaten my already shaky composure.

“Well… when do we start?” I finally manage to ask, desperately trying to sound professional rather than terrified or furious or embarrassingly smitten.

Blackwood’s voice is low and deliberate. “Right now.”

Perfect. Just what I needed—to work side by side with the man I’ve been quietly fantasizing about, while dodging an internal investigation... and a murder charge.

This week is already shaping up to be an absolute winner.

Ihate this.

Not the case. Not the pressure. Not even the part where someone’s trying to ruin me—frame me, or put a bullet in my head if it comes to that.

No. What I hate is being told who I have to work with.

Especially when she walks into the precinct like she owns the place. Chip on her shoulder, iced coffee in hand, lipstick perfect.

No hesitation. No nerves.

Just that spark in her eyes like she’s already halfway through solving a problem I haven’t even handed her yet.

I barely glance up when Rourke brings her through the bullpen, but I feel her presence like static—bright and electric, too loud for a room like this.

She walks tall, chin high, her heels clicking across the scuffed floor with the kind of confidence that pisses off men who aren’t used to being challenged.

I’m one of them. But at least I have the self-awareness to admit it.

Rourke doesn’t bother with small talk. We reach the restricted corridor. I punch in the four-digit code to unlock the briefing room—the only place I trust to house what’s left of this case. I gesture her inside, resisting the urge to grit my teeth when she brushes past me like she already belongs.

I shut the door. Let the lock click into place.

The board takes up an entire wall—timeline, mugshots, strings, maps, and reports layered three deep. It’s chaos. But it’s mine. And for the last year and a half, it’s been mine alone.

“I don’t work with a partner,” I say.

“Well,” she replies, barely glancing at me as she scans the board, “looks like you do now.”

I glare.

She doesn’t blink.

Just steps closer to the wall like she’s examining a new exhibit. Arms crossed. Eyes scanning fast. I don’t like it.

“I’m not your tour guide,” I mutter. “This isn’t a lecture.”

“Great,” she says. “I already read the files Rourke gave me on the way over. Start from the top anyway.”

I talk—gruff, clipped, no frills. Just enough to sketch the outline. I keep the messier pieces vague. I want to see what she catches, what she misses. I’m not used to explaining myself, especially not to prosecutors who think they’re here to play detective.

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