Page 113 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

“Car,” I cut in, pointing.

She gives me a flat look crossing her arms. “I’m not a child.”

“No. You’re worse. You’re curious.”

I don’t wait for her comeback. Just head for the side of the house. I already know she won’t listen.

Sure enough, halfway past the rotted fence line, I hear her soft steps behind me—drifting toward the opposite side, where the trash bins sit beside a patch of overgrown bushes.

I roll my eyes so hard it hurts but keep moving, checking the lower windows. Curtains drawn. One cracked. I crouch, peering through grime-streaked glass into a living room that looks robbed and politely abandoned.

No movement.

Up front, the parole officer bangs on the door. “Trip! Open up! You’re three days late, man!”

Nothing.

Another knock. Harder.

“Come on. Don’t make this a thing.”

Still nothing. The house is dead silent.

No lights. No shadows. No one’s here.

I glance front just in time to catch Poppy creeping around the corner like she’s starring in a Nancy Drew reboot no one asked for.

I swear to God.

This woman will be the death of me. And the worst part?

It won’t even be cool or dramatic.

It’ll be a highlighter overdose and a final, rage-induced stroke when she says fudge muffins instead of something actually cathartic.

The silence is starting to feel wrong. Trip may be sloppy, stupid, barely competent—but he’s not subtle.

And this? Way too quiet.

Which means I’ve got a very bad feeling.

I’m halfway down the south wall, about to check a boarded-up window, when I hear her voice—bright and grim at once.

“Ugh. Smells like three-day-old fish in a gym sock.”

And my stomach drops.

Shit.

“Poppy—go back!”

She shrieks, high-pitched and horrified.

“Oh my–”

Her voice cuts off like she clamped a hand over her mouth. Like the words choked her.

I bolt toward the sound, rounding the corner in a full sprint.

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