Page 112 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer
Her face scrunches, thoughtful. Then she answers.
“My mom was a nurse. I had a lot of evenings alone. Early bedtimes. Reruns. No bloody stuff allowed. Mostly Scooby-Doo, The Brady Bunch, and Murder, She Wrote. Lots of ‘zoinks’ and ‘gee golly, Marsha.’ Cursing just… didn’t fit.”
I glance at her, expecting sass. But she’s calmly sorting files. No embarrassment. Just facts. Just… Poppy.
I wasn’t ready for her honesty.
No self-pity. Just that casual sincerity she slips into when she’s not making me insane.
I clear my throat. “Your mom sounds like an amazing woman.”
She brightens—actually brightens, which I didn’t think was possible given her default setting is somewhere between sunbeam and minor fire hazard.
“She is. She’s my hero.”
I spend the rest of the ride very intentionally not thinking about her feet in those heels.
The arch like a lighthouse in the dark.
I wonder if she’s ticklish. If I took her shoe off, kissed her arch. Her ankle. Her calf, her thigh?—
Nope. Stopping.
I adjust myself. Again.
She mumbles about “order,” flipping through files and re-tabbing notes like they’re classified documents.
We pull up to the house—about as charming as you'd expect from a guy named Trip who forges parole records and hangs out with traffickers.
A porch held together by duct tape and tetanus. Beer cans crushed into the patchy lawn. A plastic Santa stares from a bed of weeds.
It’s June.
The parole officer’s already out front, cigarette dangling, phone to his ear. He clocks us and nods. I nod back and round the car to open Poppy’s door.
Her heel snags—probably on gravel—and she stumbles.
She grabs my forearm, quick and instinctive. Warm palm, brief contact, but it hits me like a jolt.
Then she pulls away.
Brushes invisible dust from her blazer like it’ll erase the moment. Her cheeks flush pink.
Yeah, I notice that too. A lot.
“Last check-in was six days ago,” the officer says, shifting his cigarette. “No calls. No work. No one’s seen him.”
I nod, already scanning the porch and windows.
“You knock yet?”
“No. Waited for you.”
This guy is either smart or lazy. If Trip’s inside, high and panicked, this guy won’t be chasing him if he chooses to bolt.
“Check the front,” I say. “I’ll take the back.”
Poppy opens her mouth?—
