Page 44 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Because I’m Poppy Hartwell.

And tonight, I’m going to kill a man.

Idon’t stop to question it. I just move.

He disappears around the corner like he didn’t just wink at me from the shadows of my client’s despair. Like Mariela isn’t in a hospital bed right now because he broke her spirit with the same hands he used to pin her down and break her body.

He jogs away with that same swagger I’ve watched on grainy surveillance footage, and something inside me clicks.

I step forward, sneakers crunching softly against the gravel, my movements instinctive—quiet. I squeeze the handle of the knife. Cold. Grounding. Heavier now than it felt in my hand this morning when I was ready to march into Mari’s building.

Stay in the shadows. Stay sharp.

My heart is thudding, loud and insistent, but my steps are controlled. I’ve walked through this moment in my mind more times than I care to admit—during long nights staring at the ceiling, during court recesses when I rewatched that video over and over.

I know what to do.

Aim for the artery behind the knee. It’ll drop him fast.

If he grabs me, go for the neck—not a stabbing motion, just a clean swipe.

Move fast. Move smart. Don’t panic.

The streets around me begin to narrow. The city closes in with its twisted alleys and dim service corridors—places where security cameras don’t always reach, where a scream can get lost between buildings.

He’s not heading toward Chase’s apartment like he usually does. He’s taking back routes. Cutting diagonally across blocks. He’s leading me.

That realization crawls up my spine like a warning. This isn’t just him heading home. This is deliberate.

I round another corner, breath clouding in the cool night air, and my pace slows just enough for doubt to catch up.

What in the heck am I doing?

This isn’t a stakeout anymore. This isn’t some late-night dramatization ofLaw & Orderwhere I play the tenacious ADA with a spine of steel and perfectly blended contour.

This is real.

I don’t have backup waiting down the block. There’s no courtroom safety net. No bailiff standing by.

It’s just me.

Me—and a knife I barely know how to hold properly, much less use without vomiting after.

He’s a predator. A real one. One who’s hurt people and who could hurt me.

And I’m chasing him.

There’s still time to turn back.

I could walk away right now. No one would know. I could call this in. Let the police take over—assuming they’d even care enough to respond.

I stare down the alley ahead and see nothing but darkness.

But somewhere in that dark . . . he’s waiting.

Or maybe . . . watching.

I close my eyes just for a moment. Just long enough to let my mother’s voice echo again:

---