Page 35 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer
“Oh! I’ll write your essay for you,” Amy pipes up. “I love writing essays.”
“How, exactly, is that helpful Ames?” I give her a side eye.
“Thanks anyway Aunty Amy. I’ll figure it out,” Jaq says confidently, but I can hear the uncertainty in their voice.
“Just don’t let your teacher catch you off guard,” I warn, trying to sound more authoritative than I feel. “You know how Mrs. Thompson is about late assignments.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jaq replies dismissively, but I can see them biting their lip, clearly worried about what might happen if they don’t pull this off.
As I pull into the school drop-off lane, my heart begins to race again—not from caffeine this time but from anxiety. The parking lot is already bustling with parents dropping off their kids and teachers directing traffic like they’re orchestrating some chaotic symphony. And I’ve got a dead contractor lounging in the back of my SUV just waiting to be discovered.
Anyone could walk by at any time and see him there. We covered him up, didn’t we? What kind of monster puts their kids in the same car as a corpse?
Me again! I’m that monster.
I stop short to avoid hitting the car in front of me and would swear I hear Doug shuffle around in the back.
“You okay,” Amy asks.
“Yep, I’m all good.” My voice comes out a few octaves higher than normal. I take a deep breath and ease to the front of the line, “Okay, out you go,” I say into the rear-view mirror.
“Have nice days! Do good things! Remember you’re awesome!” I hate that I sound so falsely cheerful.
“Mom,” Jaq grumbles as they unbuckle their seatbelt. “Can you stop saying that? We aren’t kids anymore!”
“Right,” I say sarcastically. “I’ll stop saying it as soon as you don’t need to hear it.”
Jaq rolls their eyes at me before scrambling out of the car to where a waiting Sophie smiles and waves.
Amy turns to me. “You can’t even tell she has Invisalign. That’s amazing.”
nineteen
. . .
Noah
I pullup to a scene not dissimilar from yesterday mornings. Same tape cordoning off the area. Same collective of nosy neighbors and passersby. Same faint whiff of something rotting beneath the surface of this perfectly trimmed suburban dream community. The big yellow truck is the centerpiece this time, isolated by the usual perimeter of blue and white uniforms, all standing around trying to look important while they wait for someone else to decide.
“Detective Grant!” one of the officers calls out, waving me over like we’re old friends and not two people who’ve barely exchanged more than three words. He’s a rookie—fresh-faced, posture too straight, eyes wide with a blend of adrenaline and panic. That green-around-the-edges eagerness that tells me this is probably his first real body.
“You’re gonna want to see this,” he says, voice pitched just slightly too high.
“Fantastic,” I mutter, stepping out of the car and adjusting my jacket. It’s already warm, but I’m not ready to give up the appearance of control, and the jacket helps with that. Keepspeople from looking too closely at how little sleep I’ve had or how much coffee it’s taken to get me vertical this morning.
I follow him through the crowd. Onlookers cluster on the sidewalks, coffee mugs in hand, bathrobes still belted, their faces a blur of curiosity and concern. A few of them are already filming on their phones. Always with the phones. The air here feels strange—still, somehow. Like even the breeze is reluctant to disturb the quiet and the houses themselves are holding their breath.
We approach the truck, parked awkwardly on the side of the street, like someone ditched it in a hurry. The bright yellow paint is streaked with grime. The bed is closed, but I can already feel it—that electric hum under my skin that tells me this scene is about to get worse. The smell is nauseating.
“Victims in the back,” the rookie says, his voice low. “Or what’s left of him. Think it’s the body that belongs to yesterday’s head?”
“I guess we’re about to find out,” I say.
I’ve seen death before. Hundreds of times. Different kinds. Quick ones. Slow ones. Messy. Clean. Violent. Indifferent. But there’s always that pause, that tiny flicker of hesitation before you look—like your brain wants to protect itself from whatever’s on the other side. It never works, of course, but the instinct stays.
The rookie unlocks the tailgate and lowers it slowly, like he’s expecting something to jump out. I lean in. And there it is.
A man, large, headless, wrapped tighter than a mummy in industrial-strength cellophane. Zip ties cinched tight around the ankles and again where the neck ends. Bright red, like a warning. The whole thing looks like a grotesque gift someone didn’t want to unwrap.
