Page 23 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer
I really, really fucking hope so.
thirteen
. . .
Elle
Dragginga full-grown man across a dewy lawn is harder than it looks. And by that, I mean it’s impossible. My arms ache from trying to move him. My fingers are stiff with cold and damp grass clings to my knees. I’m breathing like I ran a marathon in wet jeans. Nothing like on TV or in the movies. Which should surprise exactly no one.
All the energy from my adrenaline rush is gone. I’m pretty sure I could close my eyes right now and sleep for the next twenty years. I don’t see where I’ve been able to move his body more than an inch. If that. I’m not out of shape. I mean, I’m not exactly in shape either.
My last doctor’s visit to discuss my hot flashes ended with, and I quote, ‘You need to be in the best shape possible going into menopause.’ Which is rich, considering I have kids in high school and still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. So obviously there’s no way I’m going into menopause.
All this to say, I need help. And when I say help, I mean my best friend, Amy. She’s my ride or die. The one who has always sworn to help me bury a body if I need it. But, to call her, I need my phone. Which is on my nightstand charging.
I don’t want to leave Doug here alone while I go get it. Which is so completely irrational I don’t even understand myself. What do I think is going to happen? Still, I point at him and say, “Don’t go anywhere.”
Then I grab the gnome and sprint across the yard and up the roughshod stairs built into the embankment leading to mine. I turn to check on Doug once I reach my balcony. I can’t see him. Not clearly anyway since he’s on the ground and it’s dark. But I know he’s still there. I can feel it.
I step inside my room and grab my phone off the charger and hit the button to call Amy. I get her voicemail, so I hang up and call twice more, pacing the length of my bedroom. The third time she answers.
“Hey,” she asks groggily.
“Can you come over?”
She says something that sounds like ‘when’ so that’s what I go with.
“Now. I need you to help me bury a body.”
“Mmmhmm,” she mumbles sleepily. “‘Cause we’re ride or die, bitch.”
“Amy!”
“Yep.”
“I need you.”
“Hang on.”
I hear the rustle of her bed sheets as she struggles to get out of them. Unlike me, Amy has zero problems sleeping. She sleeps like a baby. For real. As in, she swaddles herself in her covers and is out for a solid eight hours at a time. It drives me nuts.
“Okay. I’m up.” She yawns. “Do you need anything? Wine? Ice cream? I think I have Girl Scout cookies in the freezer still.”
“Ames, why would need wine and cookies to bury a body?”
“Wait,” she sounds more alert now. “You’re serious?”
“It’s three in the morning, do you think I’m kidding?”
“Holy shit, Elle. Are you okay? Are the kids okay? Who died? Oh god, it’s not Kiki V-T, is it?” Her words run together she sounds slightly panicked. “You killed Noah?”
“The dog is fine. I didn’t kill Noah.”
“Thank God. Okay, then who are we burying?”
“I’ll explain when you get here. Come to the back yard. And don’t let anyone see you.”
“Okay, I’m on my way.”
