Page 10 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Of course it is. I can’t stand having to deal with Brannon. The man has the investigative instincts of a damp sock and the empathy of a Roomba.

“Mari, you need to pack a bag and stay with a friend. Your aunt, maybe?”

“Stacie just had a baby, and my aunt is in El Salvador for the next two weeks.”

Tiddlywinks!

I release a breath, trying to be the calm voice of reason—of action. That’s what she needs. Someone who will actually do something for her.

“I’ll do everything I can,” I tell her. “I swear to you. I’m not going to let this go.”

There’s a pause. A breath.

Then, softly:

“So I have to wait until he hurts me?”

I don’t have an answer. Not one that won’t make her more afraid.

Because the truth is... she’s right.

The system isn’t made to prevent harm.

Only to respond to it.

And by then?

It’s already too late.

I stab Brannon’s number into my phone and pace in a tight circle around my desk, Mari still quiet on the other end of the call.

“I’m going to talk to him,” I promise. “You focus on locking your doors and keeping the lights on, okay?”

“Okay,” she whispers, and I switch lines.

The phone rings. And rings. And?—

“Brannon.”

Flat. Disinterested. Like I’ve interrupted his midmorning sudoku.

“It’s Poppy Hartwell, ADA,” I snap. “We need to talk about Mariela Castillo’s case. Now.”

Long pause. “Didn’t realize we were still spinning our wheels on that one.”

Sebastian looks up from his phone, eyes narrowing like a cat spotting something beneath the fridge, and stage-whispers toward me without missing a beat:

“And I didn’t realize assholes came in beige and incompetence.”

Then he goes back to editing as my eye twitches. I slap a smile into my voice so hard it might leave bruises.

“She’s being followed. She’s receiving anonymous texts with photos of her walking alone. Someone knocked on her bedroom window last night. And your official response is wheel-spinning?”

“She hasn’t report any direct threats,” he replies, voice dripping with apathy. “We can’t jump every time someone gets nervous.”

I blink. “She’s not nervous, Detective. She’s being hunted. There’s a difference.”

“Until he makes contact, we can’t act. No restraining order violation. No actionable offense.”

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