Page 12 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

There’s a long pause, then a rustle—she’s moving, I think.

“Yeah,” she says finally. “There’s a Holiday Inn off Canal. My mom used to stay there when she visited. I can go there tonight.”

“Good. That’s good.” I nod like she can hear it. “Book the room. I’ll work on drafting a protective order. I’ll file it the minute the clerk turns on the lights Monday.”

“Thank you,” she whispers. It’s fragile. Like everything inside her is one more scare away from breaking.

I try to smile, try to put warmth in my voice. “Go pack a bag. Something cozy. Grab that pink hoodie with the wine stain you pretend not to love.”

“Pink isyourcolor, Poppy.” There’s a little bit of that bite still in there.

“Pink is everyone’s color, if they are only brave enough to handle it.”

She laughs—a little. Barely. But it’s enough. I give her the information to send the charges to the DA’s office. Demand she order room service ice cream and text me when she gets in her room.

We hang up.

And just like that, the silence rushes in.

I stare at the phone for a moment longer, thumb hovering over the call screen like I might dial her back just to say something else. Anything else.

But there’s nothing left to say. Not that’ll make this okay.

Across the room, Sebastian doesn’t speak. He just clicks his phone shut and slides it aside, his expression softer than I’ve seen it all day.

He doesn’t try to fix it or deflect with sass—he just lets the quiet exist, lets me breathe through it without filling the air.

He walks over, sets my wine glass a little closer to me, and squeezes my shoulder.

Once. Firm. Solid.

I place my hand over his and lean my cheek on it.

She’s scared. She’s alone. But, she’s alive.

For now.

And the worst part?

I don’t know if that last part is going to stay true.

Ishouldn’t be this distracted behind the wheel.

But here I am—hands at ten and two, eyes on the road, thoughts three blocks behind and spiraling.

Mari hasn’t texted. Not since yesterday.

She made it to the hotel Friday night. Kept me posted yesterday. Today? Quiet.

I’m not sure if I should message her. Maybe a selfie with room service and a snarky caption like “five-star paranoia on a two-star budget.”

Something to let me know she’s okay.

But it’s been radio silence.

I check my phone at the red light—no calls. No texts.

“Oh, bananas. This isn’t good.”

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