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At least not the kind that involves rest or dreams or any sort of brain activity that isn’thyper-vigilance but make it feral raccoon.I spent the night barricaded in my bedroom with Dexter curled beside me like a fluffy emotional-support meatball while my imagination ran a full marathon.

Every creak in the house sounded like someone scaling the walls. Every breeze through the vents became the breath of a stalker waiting to drop from the ceiling. My bedside lamp stayed on.

So did the hallway light. And the one in the bathroom, just in case I needed to sprint in there with Dexter and pretend the tub was a panic room.

And then, at six oh four a.m., just as I finally drifted into a thin layer of maybe-sleep, my phone buzzed.

My actual phone.

Not the trauma-sponsored flip phone from my anonymous, crime-scene-cleaning admirer. That one still sat on mynightstand like a cursed object from a true-crime museum. No, this was my phone.

I fumbled for it, my heart already performing a tap dance.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: This is Blackwood. We need a judge’s signature on a warrant. STAT.

I blinked. Then blinked again.

Well. Good morning to you, too, Detective Perky McPerkins, while I save his contact.

POPPY: How did you get my number?

MCPERKINS: The DA website.

MCPERKINS: It’s literally listed under your name.

Oh. Right.

I let out a breath and scrubbed a hand over my face, careful not to crush Dexter, who was still peacefully asleep like he hadn’t failed in his sole duty of barking at suspicious energy.

He was snoring. On his back. Legs sprawled in the air without a care in the world.

POPPY: Give me twenty to get dressed and caffeinated. Email me everything.

MCPERKINS : Make sure it’s a judge you trust.

That part made me pause.

There were only a few judges I trusted enough not to make a mess of this.

Judge Carter was at the top of the list—reasonable, smart, generally immune to courtroom dramatics unless someone really earned it.

I got ready in record time and scooped up my poor excuse for a security dog. I was armed with a can of hairspray and came out of my bedroom like I was SWAT team clearing a house.

Downstairs, Dexter did his business. Inside, he still hadn’t touched his food from yesterday. Maybe a little? I couldn’t tell.

I tossed it and gave him a new helping, but still, he just sat there, paws perfectly posed, snaggletooth giving me a thumbs-down.

“Dexter, we don’t have time for protests. If you’re not picking up on the context clues, we have a lot going on.”

He sneezed, and I think I should have been offended.

At the courthouse, Judge Carter wasn’t in chambers.

Instead, I was told that Judge Maxwell was available. And of course she was.

Judge Maxwell: known traditionalist, professional thundercloud, and possibly the founder of my personal fan club—if said club was made entirely of people who sigh heavily whenever I speak in court.

Rumor had it she once called my trial prepstyle over substance,which was rich considering the last man she approved a warrant for spellednarcoticswrong. Twice.