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A neighbor. A camera. A witness.

No, it could have been Chase. Travis Gannon’s bestie and constant alibi.

He lived nearby. Travis used his apartment as his hunting grounds. Chase as his scapegoat. Maybe he knew more than he let on. Maybe he followed Travis that night. Maybe Dexter isn’t some random stray—I found him near the scene. What if I didn’t just get lucky?

What if someone left him behind?

Downstairs, Dexter’s tail wags like nothing’s wrong. He trots back in from the yard as I fill his bowl and say, “Now is not the time for a hunger strike, little man.”

He ignores his food. Again. I eye him warily.

Halfway through ordering a rideshare, I head for my leather tote—only to stop short.

It’s gone.

The spot by the door where I dropped it last night is empty. I check. And check again. No sign of it.

My brain scrambles. I was holding Dexter. I put the tote down to close the door. Right there.

But nothing.

“Get a grip,” I whisper, palm pressed to my forehead. “You’re losing it, Poppy.”

The shower handprint was mine—distorted by the gloves. Maybe I just—forgot—setting it somewhere else, maybe.

But the fear won’t loosen its grip.

If someone did see me, if they are stalking me—they want me scared. Not caught. Yet.

I pull up my phone and order a full set of security cameras. They’ll be here by tonight. It may be too late, but even still, knowing I’ll have footage just in case anything happens makes me feel better.

The rideshare notification pings. Time to be normal. Time to pretend.

I crouch beside Dexter and stroke his ears. “If anyone comes in while I’m gone,” I murmur, “bite them. Okay?”

He licks my hand cheerfully, completely unbothered. I force a smile and straighten.

Today, I’m not a murderer. I’m a lawyer. I’m fine.

Just another Monday.

Sebastian waits at the courthouse doors like he’s posing for paparazzi, sunlight bouncing off his oversized sunglasses and a venti iced coffee in hand—overloaded with cinnamon-dusted foam and held out like a peace offering.

“Diva, what’s with the rideshare?” He presses the drink into my hand with an affronted look, as though I’ve personally betrayed him. “You know I would’ve chauffeured my bestie anywhere.”

“Ugh. Mondays.” I take a sip to cover the tremor in my hand, forcing an eye roll I hope passes for casual. As if I didn’t spend the weekend committing a felony and disposing of evidence. As if everything is totally fine.

“My car wouldn’t start. It’s at the dealership. They’re sending a rental, so it’s no biggie,” I add, trying to sound breezy—cheerful, even. Maybe a little too cheerful.

He narrows his eyes, giving me a quick once-over, clearly skeptical, but lets it go with a dramatic sigh. “Rude of your car, honestly.”

He links our arms as we head inside, and my pulse thrums beneath my skin, loud and frantic. Courthouse security looms ahead—officers, metal detectors, colleagues who deal with liars and criminals all day.

I’m convinced someone will look at me and just know.

“Morning, Hank,” Sebastian chirps, offering a wink to the guard.

He drops his things into the tray with theatrical flair. I do the same, trying not to look like someone who crossed the moral event horizon friday night.