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She'd started her true crime podcast and videos with, as Nia noted, "low visual and audio quality," but a lot of well-researched cases. Which quickly gained her popularity that, in turn, allowed her to upgrade her equipment.
I found myself wanting to stalk her social media. Which, again, was not like me.
The only reason I managed not to do so was because I didn't have any social media of my own. And, quite frankly, I didn't really even know how to navigate it. So I simply pored over the file, committing it all to memory, then putting the file back on Nia's desk before heading out when I saw the sun starting to creep in through the blinds.
I didn't go home to sleep, though.
I should have.
That was what I desperately needed to help me get my head on straight.
Because a well-rested me never would have done what I found myself doing right then.
Tracking down Poppy Larson at one of her favorite haunts that Nia had noted.
She's Bean Around.
Poppy Larson was a coffee fanatic.
And I figured that if I got there early enough, I might be able to catch her coming in for a cup at some point during the day.
The women who owned the coffee shop—Gala and Jazzy—weren't exactly a fan of someone who bought a coffee then parked for hours. But since the one time they'd been broken into, and had the place wrecked, and I'd offered to help clean it all up, they'd had a soft spot for me. I couldn't explain to them that cleaning it up helped me just as much as it helped them, because I knew how crazy that made me sound.
"You look like you're looking for someone," Jazzy said, dropping another cup of coffee down on the table in front of me, taking the old one away. "And you also look like you haven't slept in a week. Do I need to have a talk with that boss of yours?"
"Insomnia," I told her, shrugging it off.
"I'm no expert, babe, but I'm pretty sure six cups of coffee isn't helping the situation much," she told me, clucking her tongue before turning and making her way back behind the counter.
I sat there for two more hours, and was about ready to take Jazzy's advice to go home and try to get some sleep, when the door pulled open.
And there she was.
Poppy Larson.
The picture had been gorgeous, but still managed not to do her any justice at all.
She was wearing a pair of wide leg, high-waisted, pants with a tan, black, and orange tartan pattern that she paired with a black cut-off shirt, and the same clunky platform shoes from the pictures. Her hair was left down this time, framing her slightly rounded face with full lips and defined brows. Without sleeves, I could see tattoos snaking up one of her arms. And with the cut-off shirt, I could see the very top of a belly button ring as she reached upward to shift her hair to one side of her shoulders.
I watched her as she made her way to the counter where an iced latte was already waiting for her, making it clear that the girls here knew her well.
She tossed money on the counter, then gave Gala a smile before moving back through the line to step outside.
I didn't even think about what I was doing.
I simply dropped cash on my table as an apology for monopolizing it for so long, and then moved through the crowd as well until I made my way outside.
"Poppy," I called, surprising even myself.
I was just supposed to watch her.
That was it.
Satisfy my strange curiosity.
I wasn't supposed to talk to her.
And yet, I did.
At the sound of her name, Poppy turned on her heel, her hand going into her pocket. When it came back out, there was a small spray bottle in her palm.
Not mace.
Men's body spray.
A small travel-sized bottle of men's body spray.
"Body spray?" I heard myself ask, brows furrowing.
Poppy's eyes—green, they were a deep emerald green—moved over me, likely trying to gauge the level of threat I brought with me.
"Did you know, in many states, a woman can go to jail for using excessive force like pepper spray on a man who is harassing her?" she asked, voice dripping with derision. "Because pepper spray is a weapon. You know what isn't?"
"Men's body spray," I filled in, because she was waiting for me to do so.
"Precisely. So, now we just need to figure out if you are a fan, or one of those dudes who threaten to rape me with a cactus."
"Jesus Christ," I hissed, taken aback.
"Hm, that's a good sign, I guess," Poppy mused, but she didn't put the spray away. "So, you're a fan."
"I am," I agreed, lying through my teeth, hoping her bullshit detector wasn't too finely tuned.
