Page 165 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

The building’s nice. White brick, polished glass, private parking.

No signs of anything shady.

If anything, it’s so aggressively polished it makes my skin crawl.

I kill the engine and nod toward it.

“Last one. Then you can go manifest yourself into a closing argument.”

Poppy’s halfway out the door before I finish the sentence, fresh coffee clutched like a weaponized bribe.

We linger near the entrance, Poppy pretending to dig through her gigantic purse.

Women come and go. All upscale. Designer bags, perfect hair, jewelry that probably costs more than my SUV.

They walk out giggling like they just won the lottery.

And every "therapist" walking in?

Male.

Young.

Model-tier hot.

The kind of good-looking that makes you suspicious.

I clock it all, but before I can say anything, Poppy spins on me, eyes wild.

“It’s a brothel.”

I choke on nothing.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

She’s already launching into it, hands flying.

“Think about it. Private counseling center. Female-only clientele. Cash only. Gorgeous male ‘therapists.’ No records. No paper trail. And who’s going to self-report? No one. The clients are rich women with reputations to protect. It’s the perfect front.”

I stare at her.

Blink once.

Twice.

Then drag a hand down my face. Jesus Christ. She’s right.

“That’s…” I blow out a breath, shaking my head, “…brilliant.”

Poppy beams like I handed her a Nobel Prize.

“Congratulations,” I mutter. “You just diagnosed Manhattan’s prettiest STD delivery service.”

She grins. Spins back toward the building, practically bouncing.

I rub the bridge of my nose.

“Gonna need another fucking coffee.”

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