Page 68 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Not just smoke. Not just scorched wood and melted plastic. There’s something else that seeps into the air—quiet finality. Like the ghost of whatever was here has been reduced to carbon, and now it clings to your clothes like regret.

I park across the street and kill the engine.

What’s left of the warehouse sits in a shallow cradle of steam, a husk of warped metal and soot-stained brick. One wall’s half-collapsed in on itself. What little structure remains won’t stand long. If the city’s smart, they’ll condemn it before the ash cools.

I step out, folder in hand, and cross the yellow tape. The uniforms on scene nod as I approach. I don’t return it—not because I’m an asshole (though I am), but because I don’t give a shit.

The ground crunches beneath my boots. Flipping open the folder tucked beneath my arm, I scan the first page.

One photo shows the warehouse when it still pretended to be a business. Another from five years ago, when it was already halfway to collapse and doubling as a crime scene.

Ownership history—if you can call three shell companies and a Delaware P.O. box a “history.”

Five drug busts, three assaults, and one overdose in the past year alone.

This place has always been a shithole. Now it just looks the part.

The fire crews are mostly gone now. Just a couple of stragglers rolling hoses and poking at still-steaming piles of what used to be this building.

I walk the perimeter slowly, every inch of my skin tuned to the scene—cataloging the way the metal curled, the direction of the collapse, the faint chemical tang still clinging to the air. The fire was efficient. Fast-moving.

Nothing else around it burned.

I crouch near what used to be the loading bay. The concrete’s cracked, heat-blistered. A dark stain spreads toward the edge.

Could be oil. Could be something else.

Won’t know until forensics comes back—and I’m not holding my breath for a rush job.

The city hasn’t cared about this place for decades, which is why several guys from my case have arrests at this very warehouse.

I assume that’s why my lieutenant called me out here on a Saturday.

Tucking the folder under my arm, I exhale through my nose, staring out at the smoke rising from the rubble. Amid the stench of scorched wood and history, I catch a trail of cigarette smoke.

My lieutenant’s nearby.

My dad’s old partner, back in the day.

Also, my godfather.

It’s the only reason the two of us are able to talk openly about the real case I’m working. Laced within the guise of a human-trafficking ring is an overflowing amount of evidence that points to police corruption.

They go hand in hand. One and the same.

Someone within the circuit is running a trafficking ring. And I’m going to find out who it is.

“Blackwood.” He nods, taking a pull off the habit that’s going to kill him one day.

“Thought you were quitting.”

A piece of ash floats into my mouth, and I spit on the gravel near my boot.

He gives me a look that saysdon’t you start too.

“I’m telling Sonya.” And I will. He knows I will.

“So, what are we doing here?” I ask, scanning the wreckage again. “They find a body in that shithole?”

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