Page 108 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer
The same one who helped me at Mari’s.
We upgraded the locks, added deadbolts, reinforced the door frames, changed my alarm code to something not birthday related, and even installed a peephole big enough to see someone’s criminal aura coming from down the block.
And so far? Nothing.
No break-ins.
No messages.
No murder souvenirs.
It’s been... quiet.
Too quiet.
I could almost convince myself it was just a sick joke. A prank. Some elaborate, over-the-top scare campaign orchestrated by a bored hacker with a flair for dramatics and access to high-grade industrial tarps.
Except they cleaned up the body and burned the warehouse down.
So, no. I haven’t been sleeping great. I check my security feed more than I check my email.
Every creak in the house sends my heart into a tap-dancing spiral. And I haven’t worn open-toed shoes in a week because if I have to sprint out of my home with one hunger-strike-posing dog, I am not doing it in sandals.
But sure. Everything’s fine. Just another day in the life of a deeply repressed prosecutor accidentally entangled in whatever’s darker than homicide.
At this point, I should be charging rent to the pit of dread living in my stomach.
And the worst part?
I think I prefer the fear over the silence. And I think that is exactly what the stalker is going after. Keeping me teetering on the ledge, in constant anticipation of the next move.
Today is the first day in several that it’s actually been quiet in our little room.
The kind of quiet that settles into your bones, makes your shoulders drop, your brain stop spiraling, and convinces you that maybe—just maybe—the world isn’t on fire for a full sixty minutes.
Declan’s asleep.
Well—technically, “resting his eyes” in the corner of the precinct war room, lying on the brown leather sofa that’s so cliché it might as well come with a jazz saxophone soundtrack. We’re just missing cigar smoke and a glass of brandy.
His arms are crossed. Chin dipped to his chest. Long legs stretched out on top of the armrest, crossed at the ankles.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him without that permanent scowl etched into his face. No furrowed brow. No jaw grinding like his molars are plotting a mutiny.
His lips are relaxed. His lashes (which are criminally thick, by the way) rest against his cheeks like he’s pretending not to be beautiful on purpose.
And it’s annoying. It’s so annoying how stupidly handsome he is when he’s not looking like he wants to arrest drywall.
I shouldn’t be looking.
But I am looking.
Just a quick glance. Okay—maybe a second glance. One of those slow, slightly creepy scans you try to pass off as totally innocent, even though you absolutely just paused on his mouth for longer than is legally appropriate.
Then I look where I shouldn’t.
Where I really shouldn’t. Because someone is pitching a tent, if you catch my Tokyo Drift.
My thighs tighten, and I roll my hips ever so slightly, thinking about him. He’s... big. He’s a big mambo-jambo, and I picture myself striding up to him.
