Page 276 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

The words hit me sideways like a bullet I can’t brace for.

But there is no time to think on it.

I grab the ridiculous coffee out of his hand and fling it toward the nearest trash can—it splatters across the sidewalk in a sad arc.

“Okay, so we’re choosing violence.”

I shove Dexter and the bag of supplies into his arms before he can say more.

“Watch him for her,” I snap.

Sebastian fumbles the bag and the wriggling dog.

“Hold on Miss Ma’am—what’s going on?—”

But I’m already gone.

Running.

Pushing through the courthouse doors like the devil himself is at my heels.

Security's shouting, drawing weapons, because apparently hurling myself over the scanner like a deranged athlete is frowned upon.

“BLACKWOOD!”

Rourke’s voice cuts through the chaos.

I barely glance back—my godfather’s waving the guards off, flashing his badge like a shield.

He’s jogging after me, red-faced, already sweating.

I don’t wait.

I sprint for the precinct side, shoving through the halls until I skid into the locker room.

God bless the old man—he used to be lethal.

Now he’s braced against a locker, wheezing like he needs a defibrillator.

But by the time he gasps out my name again, I’ve got my locker open, phone in hand.

And my whole world freezes.

A missed call.

Poppy.

My chest caves in.

She called—and I didn’t answer.

There’s a voicemail, three minutes long.

I sink onto the bench, elbows on my knees.

My hands shake as I bring the phone to my ear and hit play.

The recording crackles to life—static and breathing, the faint shuffle of movement.

---