Page 275 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Throw open the laundry room door.

Dexter rockets out—ears pinned, nails skidding—then shoots through the busted front door like he’s on a mission from God.

I chase him.

He plants himself in the yard, hikes his leg on a bush, and glares at me like:

What are you waiting for, asshole? Let’s go get her.

“Good thinking, little buddy,” I mutter. “Let’s go get our girl.”

I grab his stuff—bottled water, ritzy dog food, treats—and stuff them in a bag.

Dexter peeks back in, tense and ready, shooting me an impatient ruff.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.”

I sling the bag, scoop him up, bolt for the SUV.

Behind the wheel, heart pounding, I barely fasten my seatbelt before Dexter claws into the passenger seat.

He plants himself, paws on the armrest, tail stiff with determination.

A Rottweiler next door looks sketchy. Dexter barks like he’s ten times bigger.

“Seriously, Dexter?” I growl, slamming into reverse. “Pick a fight your own size.”

He gives a snooty ruff and stares out the window.

I grip the wheel tighter, blood boiling.

Wherever she is—whoever has her?—

They just made the biggest mistake of their miserable fucking lives.

Idon’t know how I make it across the city without crashing, but when I skid into the courthouse lot, I’m half out of the car before it’s in park.

Dexter under one arm, overpriced dog food swinging from the other—we look like the world’s weirdest getaway crew.

Some poor lawyer’s briefcase explodes. Papers fly and I hurdle the mess.

“Sebastian!” I roar.

Across the lot, Poppy’s best friend—glasses slipping, coffee in hand—turns.

He lights up immediately, waving like we’re meeting for brunch, not like I’m barreling toward him like a missile.

“Sebastian Elias Tréviot Ignatius Blaire the Third at your service, Detective,” he chirps.

I’m on him in two more strides.

“Have you heard from Poppy?” I bark.

Sebastian’s whole body stills.

The smile drops like a mask slipping. He’s smart enough to know: if I’m asking, something’s wrong.

“No, honey. She’s been a little depresso espresso. We were supposed to have dinner tonight.”

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