Page 102 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Her hands trail along the edge of a paneled wall like she’s feeling for a heartbeat in the drywall, eyes narrowed, body tense in that way she gets when her brain is moving faster than her mouth.

It’s unsettling.

Mostly because I’ve seen actual detectives with decades of experience miss what she’s picking up like it’s instinct.

She stops near a row of chairs, tilting her head.

I keep looking through the dusty bookshelf a few feet away.

There’s something about the paneling—an uneven seam, maybe a centimeter off. Probably nothing unless you’re obsessively looking for anomalies in a place meant to hide them.

She presses a hand to the chair rail.

And there’s a click.

The wall shifts. A panel pops open like something out of a B-movie.

A hidden fucking door.

“Poppy, wait!” I call out, but it’s too late.

She’s opened the fucking hidden door before I can finish my warning.

She gasps.

No—shrieks is the more accurate word. Not theatrical. Not dramatic. Pure shock.

A sound that yanks my spine straight.

I’m at her side in half a breath, adrenaline snapping through me like a switchblade.

I grab her arm and haul her back so hard she stumbles into me, her heartbeat hammering against my chest as I wrap my arm around her waist, spinning her out of the way.

My gun is drawn in a blink and aimed inside the hidden room.

There’s movement behind the door and as my eyes focus, the sight stops me cold.

Inside, the room is small and windowless like a makeshift prison pretending to be storage.

And six girls.

All of them barefoot and filthy. Wrapped in the kind of rags that doesn’t qualify as clothing.

Rope burns. Blood. Makeup streaked down faces that are far too young to be here.

All gagged. All bound.

I lower my weapon immediately. The weight in my hands suddenly feels disgusting.

“Clear!” I call out, voice sharp. “We need medical—now. Bring blankets. Cutters. Water.”

I turn back.

Poppy is standing frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, one hand still pressed to her chest like she’s holding her own heart in place. Her lips are trembling.

I reach her in two strides and grab her shoulders—not rough, not gentle. Just enough to make her look at me.

“Are you okay?” I ask, voice lower now. “Are you hurt?”

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