Page 219 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Nothing good lives on that screen.

But I have the self-preservation instincts of a drunk raccoon, so I glance anyway.

UNKNOWN: You running away from me, Sunny?

My heart lurches so hard I nearly trip.

I shouldn’t respond.

I shouldn’t have kissed him.

I definitely shouldn’t have wanted to.

Resolve hardening, I shove the phone back into the thigh pocket of my leggings and pick up the pace.

Dexter waddles beside me in full plaid regalia, looking personally offended by everything.

Another buzz.

My stomach flips—traitorous and stupid.

UNKNOWN: He better stay away from you.

He?

Declan’s face flashes in my mind.

The thought of anyone touching him—hurting him—makes my chest seize.

Thumbs flying, I type:

POPPY: We’re working a case. Occupational requirement.

Reply comes immediately.

UNKNOWN: Not the detective. The prick walking up to you.

What—

I spin just in time to see Graham jogging across the lot, all slicked-back hair and cologne-test smarm.

He throws up a hand in a wave.

I cringe on instinct.

Dexter starts growling.

Low. Menacing.

Snaggle tooth flashing like a prison shank.

Graham doesn’t notice.

Smarm turned up to eleven.

“Hey, Poppy. How’d the raid go?” he asks like we’re besties and not mortal enemies.

“Hey, Graham.”

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