Page 196 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

She’s not a cop or armed.

She’s not supposed to be here.

But try telling her that—then following it with ayou should stay back—and you might as well start writing your own eulogy.

I exhale through my nose, short and sharp, as we sit in the van. The tech team is already hunched over their screens.

Small task force.

Remote surveillance.

Minimal visible presence until we have hard evidence.

The auction’s set in the brothel’s basement—disguised on the books as a “wellness club,” which is probably the most limp-dicked but effective cover I’ve ever seen.

If everything goes right tonight, we’ll rip the whole operation out by the roots.

Poppy’s on the bench seat across from me, her knee bouncing so fast it’s a blur.

The screens flicker—grainy black-and-white feeds from hidden cameras wired into the ducts and outlets.

I watch her from under my lashes as the first guests arrive.

Men in expensive suits.

Diamond cufflinks.

Loafers that cost more than our precinct’s entire budget.

Politicians. Attorneys. Judges.

Faces I’ve seen preaching justice and morality.

Poppy leans forward, face pale, fingers tight in her lap.

I see the exact moment she recognizes someone—a sharp, visible flinch. Two of them, actually.

Both attorneys she’s worked with.

One sat beside her on a sex-crimes prosecution, beaming like a saint the whole time.

I want to reach across the van, take her hand, tell her she’s not crazy for feeling betrayed.

But the words die.

She meets my eyes for a second—then looks away.

That flicker cuts deeper than it should.

Before I can unpack that, the screens flash?—

Then go black.

“What the hell?” a tech barks, scrambling toward the laptop.

“Remote uplink’s dead. They found the relay, or it got fried.”

The room turns cold.

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