Page 69 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer
“We should’ve rented a psychiatrist,” I mutter.
I pull into the driveway just as my phone dings.
NOAH: I was going to swing by in a sec. You’re home, right?
I show it to Amy.
She stares at me. We both gasp at the same time.
“Quick—back into the house!” she cries.
“Ohmigod, we need to hide the body!”
“No, we need to act normal!”
“I don’t know what normal is anymore!”
“Shit, are those his headlights?”
“Let’s just get inside and pretend we’ve been here all along!”
thirty-four
. . .
Noah
It’s justpast ten when I pull up to Elle’s house. The porch light’s glowing, and the living rooms lit up like a diorama—too bright for this late, too staged to be real. Beyond that, it’s quiet. No night joggers. No stoned teens with skateboards. Just cicadas droning and the breeze rustling through the trees like a whisper you can’t quite make out.
I sit for a second with my hand on the door handle. Despite my efforts to make sure she stays safe, there’s a small part of me, the part that was born suspicious of everything and never got past it, that wonders if I really know her at all.
If that kiss earlier could be her playing me.
Part of that goes back to my undercover work and the number of people I’ve so convincingly deceived. Fuck, if I can do it, anyone can.
But would they?
Would she?
The mother of my children. The woman I’ve been in love with almost half my life.
Still, there’s no official reason for me to be here. I’ve not only ignored but am actively hiding the heavy shadow of evidencesuggesting she’s tangled up in this. My heart may wrestle with my badge, but not very hard and not for long. It’s all personal. And probably will be from here on out.
Not that she needs to know that. Yet.
It’s because it’s personal that’s the goddamn problem.
It’s why I step out of the car; I’m driven by something primal that transcends the oath I took. I walk up the steps and knock—three quick, determined raps. Nothing.
I press the doorbell, the sound echoing like a fierce declaration. Just as I’m about to knock again, I hear her footsteps, muffled yet determined, and the shuffle of the deadbolt shifting. Then the door swings open?—
And there she is.
Elle.
Fresh from the shower or doing a damn good impression of it. Her hair’s damp around her face and her tank top is thin enough to make a priest reassess his vows. The shorts are barely hanging on. It’s a look that saysI wasn’t expecting company,but also,you’re welcome, big guy.
She blinks when she sees me. Panic flickers, fast and sharp. Then it’s gone, replaced by a half-cocked, suspicious calm.
