Page 64 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer
I hesitate—not because it’s a bad idea, but because it’s… a real one. Actionable. Dangerous. The kind of thing you only go through with if you’ve officially stopped pretending any of this is normal.
“Is this a test? I give up. How hard?”
“Ha. Ha.” She flops back to the couch. “I don’t see you coming up with any better ideas.”
“You’re right. I was just going to start digging a hole in my backyard at this point.”
“Okay, that still can be our back-up plan if for some reason the construction site doesn’t work.”
I feel myself getting excited now. Nervous, yeah. But hopeful too. It’s a good plan. Risky, but good. Better than the panic spiral I’ve been caught in since this whole mess started.
“I’m in if you are.” I glance at the clock. “Sun’s pretty much down.”
“We’ll want to go late enough that no one’s around, but early enough we don’t fall into a sleep-deprived delirium halfway through and leave a foot sticking out of the dirt.”
“Sound logic.”
Amy reaches into her tote bag and pulls out gloves, two shovels, a flashlight, and zip ties. “Just a few things I thought we may need.”
“You brought zip ties?”
“In case the tarp rips or we need to bundle him tighter.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What, no chloroform or duct tape this time?”
“Already in the car,” she deadpans.
“Alright,” I say. “What do we need to do first?”
Amy raises her glass. “Cheers. To questionable decisions and flawless execution.”
I clink mine against hers. “To disappearing a corpse.”
“This feels like the kind of thing your mom would have something to say about,” Amy says.
“She would,” I agree with a laugh. “And it would be something along the lines of”— I sit up straight and affect abetter posture—“If the options are suffering or sinning, pick the one that comes with wine.”
“Well, shit,” Amy says. “At least we got one thing right.”
thirty-two
. . .
Noah
The precinct isquiet at this hour, just the hum of the vending machine down the hall and the low murmur of the night desk sergeant watching some old crime show on mute. My office smells faintly of secrets left too long in the dark.
I should go home. I should try to sleep, reset, tackle this in the morning with a clear head. But the problem is, clarity is the last thing I want. And time is the last thing this case needs. Both just lead further down the path straight to Elle.
She thinks I don’t know why her hands shook when she kissed me earlier to keep me from going in the garage. That I can’t read her like a fucking book. Like I don’t know exactly what she’s done and I’m ninety-nine percent sure how.
How I still want her anyway.
I lower into my chair, the leather groaning under my weight, and open the bottom drawer. The folder is right where I left it, stuffed with Doug’s life on paper: petty theft charges, noise complaints, contractor disputes, enough red flags to make a carnival.
And buried beneath all that, the flash drive. The stills from the traffic camera.
I hold it in my hand, turning the little stick of plastic between my fingers. It’s almost laughable that this tiny thing could ruin her life. One image uploaded to the case file, one signature on the chain of custody, and suddenly Elle is a person of interest.
