Page 70 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

“Could be. But then again, tweakers aren’t usually coherent enough to stage an arson.” I tilt my head. “So why call me in and not Johnson?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Pulls out another cigarette—doesn’t light it. Just chews on the filter and nods for me to follow him away from hearing ears.

“That pet-store manager you had picked up today?” he finally says. “Frank Dempsey.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah. Had the bastard brought in this morning so he can sit in holding all weekend.”

The guy’s not a trafficker—he’s a client. But a recent one. Within the past six months, which means he’s still got numbers in his phone. Names. Drop points. Payment methods.

Easy shakedown.

He shakes his head, low and amused. “Booking said he pissed his khakis from crying.”

I snort a laugh. Figures.

“His background came in while they were booking him. Guess who owns the shell company tied to this warehouse?”

I blink once. “No.”

“Yup. Frank Dempsey. Our awkward suburban dad turned trafficking suspect.”

I exhale through my nose. Hard.

“Guy’s got a coke habit and is bored with his marriage,” I mutter. “But I don’t peg him for a killer.”

“Me either.” Rourke shrugs. “Still. Too coincidental to ignore.”

I nod, jaw tight. He’s right.

“Okay,” I say, snatching the unlit cigarette from his hand and breaking it in half. “Let’s go scare the shit out of Dad-of-the-Year Dempsey.”

Idrop the greasy sack of fast food onto the table like it’s a gift to mankind. Which, frankly, it is. I’m fucking starving.

There’s a particular kind of peace that comes from the scent of salt, meat, and saturated regret. I take a long, cold pull of the chocolate shake, letting the sugar hit my system before the sodium does. Heaven.

“You’re doing the interview,” I mutter around a fry. “I’m emotionally unavailable until I finish this masterpiece.”

Rourke eyes the bag with the hunger of a man whose wife put him on the pre-diabetic diet six weeks ago.

“You better have gotten enough for both of us.”

I reach into the bag and pull out a plastic container chock-full of greens and set it down like I’m presenting an Olympic medal.

“I did.” I gesture at the salad. “It’s right here, waiting for you.”

He stares at it like I slapped his mother with a head of lettuce. “You’re a dick.”

“And you’re welcome.” I unwrap my burger like it’s the only thing I trust in this building. Aside from Rourke, it pretty much is.

He grabs the file folder, muttering something about betrayal and rabbit food, and stalks into the interview room.

Through the one-way glass, I watch Frank Dempsey—the suburban cautionary tale in a button-down—practically melt into his seat. The guy’s shaking hard enough to rattle his watch.

His color is somewhere between paper and corpse.

“What lie did you tell your wife to excuse your pickup?”

Dempsey stammers. “DUI. I told her I got pulled for a DUI.”

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