Page 35 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

I press the elevator button like I don’t have sweaty palms. There is no time for fangirling when I have a rapist to catch.

As soon as I step off the elevator, Benjamin is there—arms crossed, brow raised, mugless.

“Coffee?” he grunts.

That’s it. Not hello, not good morning, not is your client still alive, just . . . “coffee.” Like a raccoon demanding tribute.

He looks at the two cups in my hands, knowing neither is for him.

I arch a brow and keep walking. “No patrols. No coffee.”

My tone is sweet. My nose is in the air. My irritation is very much on display.

He falls into step beside me, exhaling like I personally created the staffing shortage.

Sebastian can sense my presence in the office and emerges from his. Both hands out, flexing his fingers, saying, “Gimme, gimme,” until his hot caramel macchiato is in his hands.

“Poppy, you know the precinct is short-staffed and can’t just give up uniforms when we say jump. Especially when there’s no active case.”

“D-rama-a,” Sebastian sings out, continuing into my office.

I stop just short of my office door and turn to face him. “There is an active case. There’s a victim who’s been stalked, harassed, threatened, and terrorized in her own home. Her attacker is escalating. That sounds pretty active to me.”

He shifts his weight, jaw tight. “You know what I mean. There’s no formal filing. No judge is going to approve protective measures without new charges.”

I hold his stare, heat simmering low beneath my rib cage. “So, we wait until she’s dead? That the plan? We keep our hands clean while he tears her life apart and then send her mom a condolence fruit basket?”

“Poppy—”

“No. I want this documented.” I take a breath, low and controlled. “I want her most recent report entered and attached to the original case. I want it escalated with precinct contact, and I want her dirty condom and note analyzed today. She deserves to feel like someone gives a crapola.”

“Preach, Diva,” Sebastian calls out from inside my office.

“Do we have to do this on a Friday?” Benjamin sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose like it’ll make me disappear. “I’m one bad headline away from a desk job.”

“Then I hope the story includes the part where I tried to stop another woman from becoming a statistic, but you were too worried about your coffee.”

We stare at each other a second longer—me, with the fire of a thousand unpaid internships behind my eyes; him, with the weariness of a man who used to care but misplaced it somewhere between budget meetings and bottled antacids.

He finally mutters, “I’ll see what I can do,” and walks off.

Yeah, I’m sure you will.

Sebastian’s phone rings and he rolls his eyes, taking a drink of his coffee before answering. “Courts! How is my favorite socialite jailbird?”

I exhale through my nose and step into my office—my little pink-lit sanctuary in a building that smells like anxiety and . . . nickels.

It’s almost lunchtime, but I don’t care. Routines don’t get canceled just because the clock’s ticked past its usual hour.

Lights on. Bag down. Computer on.

“Well, slay! How–ever, sweets, that many drugs on you at once could totally be taken for trafficking, and hun, orange is not your color.” More coffee makes it down Sebastian’s throat as he nods at whatever his client is going on about.

I cross to the window, twist the rod to open the blinds, and let in a sliver of stubborn New York daylight. The wax warmer gets switched on next—lavender and lemon zest, a scent that says we’re going to pretend we have our lives together today.

I walk to the corner of my desk and greet my favorite coworker.

“Good morning, Keanu Leaves,” I murmur, brushing a finger across its glossy leaf.

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