Page 55 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer
Elle
We pull into the driveway,and I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what’s next. Jill reaches for the button to open the garage door, and I feel a jolt of panic shoot through me. “Wait! No! Don’t—” I blurt out, but it’s too late. The door begins to rise, revealing the dim interior of the garage.
My heart races as I frantically push the button again, desperate to close it before she sees. “Jill, honey, let’s go in through the front door instead?” I suggest, my voice rising in pitch.
The door stops three feet or so from closed. She’s already noticed the plastic covering the floor, her eyes widening in confusion. “Mom, what’s that?” she asks, pointing.
I swallow hard, my throat dry as sandpaper. “It’s… it’s nothing! Just some—some stuff I was working on,” I stammer, trying to sound casual while my mind spins with excuses.
“Stuff?” Jill echoes, her brow furrowing. “With plastic wrap?”
“Just… just stay in the car for a second!” I plead, my voice almost a whisper now as dread washes over me. I can’t let her see what’s inside. Not now. Not ever.
Amy rushes out the front door, her face the picture of sheer panic, her gaze darting back and forth wildly before settling on us in the car.
“Is she okay?” Jill asks.
“Um, I’ll find out.” I get out of the car and press the child-safety-lock button on the fob to stave Jill from exiting for a minute or so.
“It’s okay,” Amy whispers. “I’ve got it covered. Like, literally.”
“Mom!” I hear Jill’s muffled voice from inside the SUV.
“He’s wrapped in—” she starts.
“Mom, what the H?” Jill says climbing out of the car from the driver’s side door. “You did the child lock!”
“I did?” My eyes bug at Amy in a plea for help. “I’m sorry, honey.”
Jill stomps past us and takes the lead into the house, through the front door. Thank God.
“He’s wrapped in plastic,” Amy mumbles from the side of her mouth.
“Plastic you can see through!” I hiss.
“And then covered in dirty laundry,” she whispers.
I look at her incredulous. “Laundry?” I whisper-yell.
“Dirty laundry. Because your kids will never look there.”
She has a point. My kids do seem physically incapable of handling dirty laundry. No matter if it’s to pile it in a hamper or load it into the washer.
“Fine.” I concede. “But I’m burning anything he touched after this.”
“It’s, like, a million layers of plastic,” she says.
I raise an eyebrow in her direction.
“Yeah, I don’t blame you,” she says. “I’ll even help you do it.”
twenty-eight
. . .
Elle
“Is that Daddy?”Jill points outside the window. I pause pulling things out of the fridge to make our lunch to check.
