Page 184 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

I’m so gone for him it hurts.

His thumb and forefinger catch my chin, tipping my face up.

“You’re gonna smell like me tomorrow,” he says, voice thick with possessiveness. “When those motherfuckers get too close—they’ll know you belong to me.”

I don’t know whether to shiver or sob. Maybe both.

He stands and turns to leave.

Panic slams into me.

“Wait,” I call out, voice small and wrecked.

He pauses in the doorway—half shadow, half man.

“Will you...” I choke, forcing it out. “Stay? Until I fall asleep?”

The room feels too dark. The memories are too loud—of killing, of how good it felt. Of how much more of him I want.

I don’t want to be alone with my mind.

He stares for a beat, then moves back to the chair.

“Sleep, Sunshine. I’ll be here.”

I turn onto my side, pulling the sheet to my chin.

And for the first time in a long while?—

I feel safe.

Iscroll through Poppy’s late-night text again, sipping black coffee strong enough to strip paint.

It’s not the first time I’ve read it this morning.

She actually found the link we’d been chasing for weeks.

A midlevel city controller—low enough to avoid scrutiny, dirty enough to launder paperwork through shell companies.

Lease after lease.

Fraud buried under so much bureaucracy it would've taken a task force months to untangle.

And she did it alone.

In a few hours.

The question now isn’t whether the clerk’s dirty—he is.

It’s whether he’s working alone or if someone higher up is tipping him off.

I had the bastard picked up before he could finish opening his car door at the courthouse.

He’s sitting in an interview room, sweating through his cheap suit.

But he can stew a little longer. I’ve got something else to handle first.

I lean against the front steps, holding an extra coffee, waiting for a certain pink tornado to blow into the parking lot.

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