Page 277 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Then a sharp voice cuts through.

“Matthews!”

Poppy. High-pitched. Frantic.

A struggle follows—grunts, crashing, the unmistakable sound of a fight.

“Mother fucker,” I snarl, the words ripped from my throat, echoing through the empty room.

A sickening crack. A hit. I know they struck her.

My grip tightens until the phone case splits in my hand.

Then—so quiet I almost miss it?—

My name.

Declan.

Barely a whisper, but it slices through me like a blade.

There are more footsteps. Muffled voices. Fading.

A deep one snaps, “Forget the phone. Let’s get her to the house.”

I sit frozen, listening to the last minute and a half of silence.

Like if I replay it enough, I can drag her back to me.

The voicemail ends.

Matthews.

She said a name.

Poppy doesn’t do anything without a reason.

I run it through my head—names, cases, connections?—

Nothing clicks.

Rourke’s voice cuts in again, face flushed, hands on hips.

“What the fuck is going on, Declan?”

I don’t answer. I already know.

“The evidence board.”

I take off like a shot, boots pounding.

I slam through the war room door.

The board glows under harsh fluorescent lights, covered in sticky notes and string.

I scan—fast looking for hot pink: persons of interest.

I rip notes down until?—

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