Page 76 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer
I don’t soften it. “What were you two doing near Doug Finch’s truck this morning?”
Not a gasp. Not a flinch. Just a shift—weight sliding to her back foot, shoulders settling like armor. Amy blinks a beat late and laughs, bright and hollow.
“Pilates,” she says. “Early class. Core and… obliques. Obliquing. I’m so sore.” She clutches her stomach like she’s auditioning.
I almost laugh.
“We have footage,” I say.
Amy’s glass pauses midair. Elle sets hers down without a clink, eyes steady on mine. “Footage.”
“Traffic cam,” I say. “Seven twelve a.m. Silver SUV slows, parks half a block behind the truck. You get out first.” I tip my chin at Elle. “Circle the driver’s side. Pause. Look in. Amy does the same. Pause. Confer.”
Amy swallows loud enough to register. Elle glances at the sink, like she’s considering turning the tap just to move, then keeps her hands where they are.
“We saw it was parked weird,” she says. “Crooked. It looked… off.” A micro-glance at Amy, then me again. “We wanted to check it out.”
“The giant banana is hard to miss,” Amy adds, hopeful.
“Why not report it?” I ask.
Her mouth twists. “Because there was nothing to report,” she says. “A weird truck parked weird. I’m not calling that in whenyou have actual emergencies. Also, I didn’t have my phone on me.”
“You had it in your back pocket,” I say.
Her lashes flick once. “Is this an interrogation?”
Not in the way you think, baby.
“You could’ve texted,” I say. “Anonymous tip. ‘Truck looks abandoned.’”
“Anonymous tips aren’t anonymous,” Amy mutters. “Like comment cards. They always know.”
I angle closer, voice low. “Then don’t leave anything that needs anonymity. Leave… nothing.”
Elle keeps me in her sights like I’m the thing parked wrong. “I looked because that’s what people do when something sits where it shouldn’t,” she says. “Neighborhood watch without the vest. That’s all.”
I shift just enough that the loose floorboard announces me—something else I never fixed but should have. The sound lands between us like history.
“Tell me the truth,” I say.
“I am.”
I study the places she can’t stage-manage. Tendons tight at the back of her hand where it braces the counter. Shoulders loose but not low—ready to absorb impact. Her body angled—without thinking or because she thought about it too much—between me and the small hallway that leads to the backyard door.
“I should bring you in,” I say, light as a coin flip.
Her gaze snaps to mine. “Then why haven’t you?”
“Because we’re talking,” I say, and even my ears don’t buy it.
She huffs. “Cops don’t ‘talk.’” Air quotes. “You taught me that, Noah.”
Amy sets her empty glass down like she’s defusing a bomb. “Can I pee during ‘talking’? Or…?”
“Stay.” It comes out harder than I intend. I don’t take it back. I’m pissed we’re here. More pissed she doesn’t trust me enough to give me something I can use to protect her.
Both feel it. The air tightens.
