Page 66 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer
“They’ll kill me if they find me.”
The kind of cryptic crap that fits perfectly in a conspiracy theory. People don’t need details—they fill them in themselves.
Next, I pull out Doug’s financials. Already a mess. And with a little creative highlighting, I can point it all straight to motive.
Big withdrawal the day the Tom Brady was killed?There it is.
Suspicious deposit from an unknown account?Sure.
It doesn’t even matter if it holds up under scrutiny. Once the idea is planted, it grows like mold.
I lean back, chair creaking, and stare up at the water-stained ceiling tiles. My whole career’s been about finding the truth, but the truth has never mattered less than it does right now. What matters is keeping her free. Keeping the kids from losing their mother. Keeping myself from losing her again.
The truth can burn.
I drag the file closed and shove it back into the drawer. I’ll add the false leads later—tuck them into the case file, drop breadcrumbs for the others to find. Let the investigation wander where I want it.
I grab the burner phone, slide it into my pocket, and kill the office light. The dark swallows me whole, the only sound my own breathing and the hum of the vending machine down the hall.
Doug Finch is going to be the monster who killed a man and ran.
Elle’s going to be a bystander who never got too close.
And me?
I’m the bastard rewriting the ending.
thirty-three
. . .
Elle
“Alright,”I say. “Let’s do this.”
Amy grins. “Ride or die.”
We head for the garage first. The tarp-wrapped body is still where we left it—slumped in a neat, ominous lump beside the washer. The smell isn’t terrible yet, but there’s a sour note in the air that tells me time is not on our side.
Amy peels back the tarp enough to check. “No movement. No signs of escape. Still dead.”
“Great.”
I swallow. “And the plan again?”
Amy’s grin turns sharp. “Doug gets an upgrade. Luxury burial beneath future suburbia. Hudson Street. That new development with the giant signs about eco-friendly living and imported quartz countertops?”
“Nothing says sustainability like hiding a man under a McMansion,” I mutter.
We load Doug into my SUV using the plant dollies again. Every push, pull, lift, and drag of his dead weight feels harder now, like he knows we’re screwing this up and wants to punish us for it. The tarp crackles. My back revolts. Amy curses underher breath. I pretend we’re two women hauling an oversized Costco purchase.
We hit the road.
The closer we get to Hudson Street, the tighter my stomach knots. Amy’s chewing gum like it owes her money. I keep scanning the horizon for flashing lights, nosy foremen, or a cosmic billboard that says:
TURN BACK, YOU IDIOTS.
I white-knuckle the steering wheel like it might tether me to reality. My heart’s doing a speed-metal drum solo, and every breath feels like I’m inhaling through a coffee stirrer.
