Page 4 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer
“What else do we know?” I ask the officer with the strongest stomach.
He flips open a pocket notebook. “Vic’s Tom Brady. Owns that used car dealership over on State Street.”
I arch a brow. “Tom Brady?”
“Yeah. Name’s where the similarities end. No athlete. More like anti-Brady in every way.”
While they run down his bio—avid hunter, podcaster, founder of “Animals Are Food, Not Pets”—my mind flickers elsewhere. Elle would’ve had something cutting to say about this guy. Something sharp enough to make me bite my cheek not to laugh, even standing here over a severed head.
I force myself back to the present. “So, his wife says he left Saturday for his trip, no cell service, gone two weeks. Normal routine?”
“That’s what she told us.”
“And she stumbles on his head today by accident?”
They nod. “She came out for ice. Heatwave.”
I straighten, already missing the freezer’s cold blast. Triple-digit temps. First day back in homicide. First day back in Santa Luna. And I’m sweating through my coat thinking about Elle unpacking groceries ten blocks away, cursing that busted shopping cart. Thinking about the way she looked at me this morning like she couldn’t decide whether to hug me or throw brie at my head.
“Any sign of the body?”
The one with the notebook shakes his head. “Did a sweep of the property, nothing here. We’ve got cadaver dogs on the way to check the neighborhood.”
When my transfer from the DEA came through, I didn’t hesitate. One my (now) ex-partner and best friend, Ryder Locke, considers to be career suicide. He’s right—it is. At the very least, it’s a significant demotion. But I’d trade the cartel, the money,the adrenaline, for a chance to stand in my own kitchen again. For a chance at my family.
I’d been ready to leave the DEA years ago. But then an old ghost stirred—a cartel leader I thought was dead. Turns out he wasn’t. The only way to keep Elle and the kids safe was to disappear again. Deep cover. She warned me she couldn’t take another extended assignment. I left anyway. She filed. I let her. Better divorced than dead.
Now I’m done. No more lies. No more secrets. I’ll tell Elle enough to understand why I left. Enough to see I did it for them. The rest… the rest will stay buried.
“Anything else?” I ask, pulling myself back to the garage.
“Side door forced. Knob lock. Amateur job.”
I shake my head. People blow thousands on cameras but leave the garage door untouched like it’s Fort Knox. Amateurs.
“Forensics get what they need?”
“Think so. ME’s already been by. No time of death yet.”
Figures. Hard to pin down TOD when all you’ve got is a head.
I snap a few photos for myself before motioning the lab tech forward. He lifts the head out with a care usually reserved for bomb components. I strip off my gloves, drop them in an evidence bag. The freezer lid closes with a dull thud.
I scrub a hand down my face and feel the thin sheen of sweat that’s formed at my brow, and step inside. The house hums with too much AC that’s already fighting a losing battle against the heat and not enough comfort.
“Wife around?” I ask.
“In the living room,” an officer says. “EMS dosed her. Neighbors with her.”
I walk in slow, letting the domestic details hit—photos on the wall, laundry folded halfway, cereal bowl drying in the sink. Life, right up until it isn’t.
She’s curled on the couch; tissue crumpled in her fist. Beside her sits a wiry woman with sharp eyes and a bun that could survive a hurricane. Recognition sparks—Nosy Nancy I think Elle calls the neighbor two doors down from her. Which makes me wonder what the hell this lady is doing across town here.
“I’m Detective Grant,” I say, flashing my badge. “Mind if I ask you a few more questions?”
Nosy opens her mouth, but I shut her down with a look. The wife blinks at me, dazed. “I already told the officer everything.”
“I know. Sorry to make you repeat yourself.” I soften my tone. “Just want to walk through it once more.”
