Page 65 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer
I could log it right now. Hell, I should. That’s what the badge demands. But my hand doesn’t move. Because if I do, I know how it plays out. That’s not the life I want for her. For our kids. For me. I shove the drive into my pocket, pressing it flat against the lining. It won’t see the light of day again.
Instead, I pull a fresh legal pad toward me and start writing.
Step One: Destroy the pictures.
Already in motion.
Step Two: Build a narrative.
Doug Finch, disgruntled contractor, deep in debt, already on record as a drunk and a thief. Tie him to Tom Brady’s body, easy enough since the body was found in his truck. Make it look like Doug killed him and panicked.
Step Three: Erase the loose threads.
Witnesses, timelines, any hint Elle was near the scene.
I jot them down like commandments, the pen digging grooves into the paper.
The cork board across the room glares at me, plastered with crime scene photos. Tom Brady wrapped in plastic, bound with zip ties. A grotesque present left in a truck already seeping bodily fluids and polluting the air around it.
Doug’s truck. Doug’s mess. Doug’s scapegoat.
I drag Doug’s file closer and start flipping through it again. The man practically left a trail of breadcrumbs for me to exploit. Gambling debts with men who don’t forgive. Late-night bar fights. Sketchy side jobs where supplies went “missing.”
I spread the papers out across the desk like cards in a rigged hand. All I have to do is shuffle them into the right order.
Take the missing drywall from the Michaels’ job—make it look like Doug was reselling to fund his habit.
Take his fight with O’Malley’s bartender—tie it to a night a drunken John Doe was found. That’s two bodies he can take credit for.
Take his credit card charges—slot them neatly against the timeline I need.
No one will question it too hard. They’ll want to believe it. Hell, half the neighborhood already hated the guy.
I picture Elle again, standing in her kitchen with that brittle edge to her smile. She doesn’t trust me yet—not the way she used to. But if I do this right, she won’t have to know what I’ve done. She’ll just be safe.
The clock on the wall ticks louder, filling the silence. I push to my feet and start pacing, chewing at the inside of my cheek.
Planting evidence isn’t new to me. Not really. Every cop who lasts long enough bends the rules once or twice. A witness nudged. A report rewritten. A confession massaged until it fits.
At the DEA it was even worse.
But this? This is different.
This isn’t about the job. This is about Elle.
I rub a hand over my face, the stubble scratching my palm. I should feel guilty.
I don’t.
I just feel… resolute.
At my desk again, I pull out the pouch of burner phones and cash. Tools I’d sworn off years ago, back when Elle still believed in me. Back when I still believed in myself.
I take one burner out, slot in a prepaid SIM, and thumb through the call log. Empty. Perfect. This will be Doug’s phone now. A few texts to the right people, a couple of calls in the middle of the night—make it look like he’s scrambling, running scared.
I’ll seed the messages tomorrow. Something to the effect of:
“Job went bad. Don’t call me.”
