Page 222 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

That familiar storm brewing behind his eyes.

“Booking worked all night after the raid,” he says, already falling in step beside me like we didn’t just have one of the most awkward hallway collisions of all time.

“Good,” I reply, trying to sound normal. Trying not to think about how his voice vibrates through my ribs like a tuning fork made of tension.

He flips open the folder, all business now.

Like he needs to focus or risk doing something dangerous.

(Join the club.)

“Emergency bond hearing for the mayor was at six a.m.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “And?”

“Denied.”

A spark of pride lights in my chest.

Small win. I’ll take it.

But before I can savor the rare taste of institutional justice, Declan hits me with the real news:

“And... did you hear? The Houseguest was found dead in the Hudson.”

He holds up a newspaper.

And right there on the front page is my rideshare driver.

The world tilts as my stomach turns to ice.

The Houseguest.

One of New York’s most infamous serial killers, at large for nearly two decades.

He didn’t just kill women, he lived with them first.

Ate meals with them.

Watched TV in their living rooms.

Showered. Slept in their beds.

A houseguest.

My lungs lock. The air in my body turns into glass.

Declan sinks onto one of the cracked leather couches in the corner of our war room, already pulling out his phone.

I just stand there.

Frozen.

Phone slipping into my hand like muscle memory.

I scan the headline.

Vision blurring.

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