Page 88 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

And right now? All eyes are on her.

Poppy fucking Hartwell steps out of the car like she’s on the cover ofLawyer Monthly, in a pale pink pencil skirt and sky-high heels that I’m convinced she uses to stomp over egos—male ones, mostly.

Matching blouse.

White blazer so clean it practically glows.

Bright blonde hair pulled back like she’s heading to trial, not walking into a glorified junkyard.

She may as well be a goddamn neon sign, and every mouth-breathing idiot on this lot clocks her in less than a second.

Each one gets a scowl from me. A silentdon’t even think about itthat I throw in their direction as I walk half a step behind her.

Trip works here.

Bottom of the food chain. Frequent flyer at county for shit like petty theft, trespassing, and the occasional low-level drug charge. Nothing violent—just chronically stupid.

A floor manager approaches, wiping his dirty hands on dirtier pants before offering one out to Poppy with a crooked smile.

I brace for her to swat it away or slice him with a look, but she doesn’t. Just shifts the files in her arm, lifts her phone with the other hand, and avoids touching him without making it obvious.

Smooth.

“We’re here to speak with a man named Trip,” she says sweetly. “It’s about his mother.”

Does Trip even have a mother?

But hell, it works. In under two minutes, the manager is calling him up over the radio and giving us access to his sad little office.

The place smells like cigarettes and gym socks had a love child. Poppy steps in without flinching. I follow and shut the door behind us.

Trip shuffles in a minute later, lanky and twitchy, sunken eyes darting to me before he gives up. “Aw, really, Blackwood? Again?”

“You’re a fucking liar, Trip.” I pin him with a glare so he knows I’m pissed and in no mood for his whining. Poppy is helping herself to a drawer labeled “Timesheets.”

Son of a bitch.

I start us off, keeping my voice flat, direct. “You were working the night of March third, right? Warehouse shift. Started at six.”

Trip shrugs, slouches back into the creaky chair across from us like this is routine. “That’s what I said, yeah.”

“And your PO confirmed it?”

“Guess so.”

I narrow my eyes. “That’s funny. Your timesheet says otherwise.”

He shrugs again, unbothered. “Paperwork’s not really my thing.”

Stonewalling. Classic. This isn’t going anywhere fast.

“Here it is!” She says it like she just found a lost earring—casual. But then she smacks the original timesheet on the desk like a courtroom angel of death.

“You told your parole officer you were on shift,” she says softly. “And you forged the timesheet you submitted to cover the fact you were not working.”

Trip snorts, about to lie again. She doesn’t let him.

“Because you were out delivering drugs and saw something you weren’t supposed to. Right?”

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