Every writer has a digital paper trail. Some people search for recipes or vacation ideas. Others Google inspirational quotes or DIY projects they will never finish.

Writers, especially mystery writers, however, leave behind something closer to a police blotter.

If law enforcement ever confiscates my laptop, I will not be able to talk my way out of it. There is no innocent explanation for the things I’ve Googled in the name of “research.” None. Whatsoever.

For example:
• How much phenobarbital does it take to kill a person? Because I have to get the dose right so the victim actually dies rather than just walking around like a zombie.

• How well does phenobarbital dissolve in coffee? Because if it just sinks to the bottom of the cup, some forensics expert is going to call me on my lack of chemistry acumen.

• What drugs can’t be traced in the body? I have my reasons for wanting to know.

• Can blunt force trauma look accidental? This one feels especially awkward because Google pauses—just long enough—before answering.

• Symptoms of poisoning in dogs. I’m a veterinarian by training, which helps explain this… except that it doesn’t explain why I then followed it with “non-detectable toxins and odorless poisons in humans.”

• Would a dog show have security cameras? This was for a perfectly respectable novel involving a suspicious death at a dog show. Perfectly respectable. Please stop judging me.

• How to thoroughly clean blood from floors so BlueStar, Luminol, and Fluorescein can’t detect it. I want to emphasize this was for fiction. My house is fine. Mostly.

• Can someone die from falling down stairs? Google’s answer: Yes. Google’s tone: Are you and the people you’re with okay?

• Ways to make murder look like a natural death. No need to explain.

• Accidents that aren’t actually accidents. Again, no need to explain.

• Deaths no one questions at first. See above.

• If the police are targeting your vehicle, would it help to get a new car? AI actually declined to give me legal advice on this one.

• What can the police use against you if they don’t read you your Miranda rights? Apparently quite a lot. And if you say something without being asked, it’s fair game.

Then there are the searches that don’t sound criminal until you see them grouped together:

• How to tell by body language when someone is lying

• What voids a life insurance policy?

• How much trouble will a police officer get into if a suspect gets his gun?

• What’s the average staff at a small-town police station at night?

Sometimes Google tries to intervene. I’ll search for something that sounds innocent, like “what not to say under pressure,” and suddenly I’m getting ads for therapy, life coaching, and forgiveness journals. Google thinks I’m not okay—and it’s trying to save lives.

And yes, I clear my browser history. Not because I’m guilty—but because I’d like to continue being invited to church events without side-eye.

I like to imagine that somewhere there’s a Google employee who has flagged my account under a category called “Probably a Writer, But Still Concerning.”

If so, I’d like them to know this: I’m harmless. I write fiction novels, some of which are mysteries. I solve fictional crimes. I restore fictional order. I catch the fictional killer by Chapter 28 and wrap everything up with emotional closure and a slightly ironic ending.

But if my internet history is ever read aloud in court, I won’t be able to explain myself.

I’ll just sigh, lean into the microphone, and say, “I swear—it was research for my book.”