Page 93 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

My stomach drops.

This is no coincidence, or karma.

It’s a stalker.

Not just any stalker.

One who helped me cover up a murder.

Silently. Completely.

And for reasons I don’t understand… they want me to know.

Idon’t remember walking out of the hospital. Or unlocking the rental.

Just that I’m in the driver’s seat now, doors locked, hands shaking, laptop booting like it’s a digital life raft.

Breathe, Poppy. Just breathe.

You’re fine. Doing your job. Checking on a traumatized client. Being a responsible public servant.

That’s the story.

If anyone audits your history, you’re doing client research.

Not spiraling.

Just Poppy Hartwell, Concerned Legal Professional™.

I log into the DA’s secure portal. Credentials accepted with a cheery little ding that feels wildly inappropriate.

I start where I should.

Friday’s police call logs.

Filtered to Mariela’s address.

Narrowed to just after seven p.m.

There it is.

The dispatch report.

Emergency services deployed.

Call recording attached.

Okay. Next: the warehouse. I widen the window—eight p.m. to midnight.

Nothing.

No disturbance calls. No suspicious activity. No mention of a man stabbed to death and left on an abandoned warehouse floor.

And, crucially, no reports of a crazed woman and a murder dog sprinting through the back alleys with a bloody knife.

I close my eyes and exhale a shaky breath that turns into a sob.

I stretch the search again—push it toward early morning.

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