Page 90 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

The lid popped midair, and the entire cup splashed all over Declan’s pants. Not just a few drops—it looked like his thigh lost a fight with a brown-sugar tidal wave.

Naturally, my brain short-circuited. I grabbed the nearest object—a pristine case file—and started blotting.

On his pants.

With evidence.

He cleared his throat and raised a very pointed eyebrow.

That’s when I realized I was blotting his… histhing.

I slapped the paper out of my hand like it had betrayed me.

So yes. Nailed it.

But aside from the caffeine catastrophe, the day actually went well.

There’s something about a fresh case file that rewires my brain.

The victims, the motive, the cover-up—pieces click into place. It’s my favorite stage.

The one where the case starts whispering secrets.

Declan grumbled the whole way, but I caught him mumbling: “Ten minutes and she’s farther than I got in six months.”

He said it like it physically hurt, but I heard it.

I’d engrave it on a mug if I thought he wouldn’t smash it.

He dropped me off without fanfare—just a nod and a muttered something about a warrant. Real warm-and-fuzzy guy.

Now I’m sitting on the courthouse curb, shoes off, feet throbbing, waiting for the rental car that was supposedly delivered ten minutes ago.

I’m halfway through texting Sebastian about visiting Mariela when my phone buzzes.

UNKNOWN NUMBER

I frown and open it.

And the world drops out.

Images. Several of them.

The crime scene.

The body—his body. Travis Gannon.

Dismembered and laid out on tarps like a twisted jigsaw.

My hand flies to my mouth. My soul nearly bolts.

Someone else was there.

Nausea curls sharp in my throat. My fingers go cold.

I swipe through the images. It’s him. It’s real. It’s proof.

Then one final message:

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