Page 79 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer
Amy stares at me, her expression a mix of disbelief and fear. The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. I can almost hear the clock ticking in the background, each second a reminder that we’re running out of time.
Then she straightens, determination flickering in her gaze. “Okay. We need to move Doug, like, tonight.”
I nod, the gravity of her words settling heavily in my stomach. “We’re out of time,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “No more clever plans. No more hoping we get lucky.”
Amy’s mouth presses into a grim line as she processes what we’re about to do. “Backyard?” she asks, her tone clipped and efficient.
“Backyard,” I confirm, though the word feels like a lead weight in my mouth.
We both know what that means. It’s not just a physical act; it’s a finality
thirty-nine
. . .
Noah
I flickthe lock on my office door and sink back into the chair. My pulse won’t settle, no matter how many times I tell myself I’ve got control of this.
Because I don’t. Not really.
Not with the gnome photo floating around out there.
I pull open another folder, this one tucked deeper than the rest. Inside: a still frame printed off a private security feed, the kind that usually gets passed around like neighborhood gossip until someone finally drops it in the anonymous tip box.
Elle.
Grainy, low-resolution, but it’s her. My gut knew it the second I saw it. She’s caught mid-motion in the frame, hair wild, arm raised, wielding that stupid lawn gnome like a weapon. The thing looks ridiculous—smiling ceramic face, red hat tilted—but the impact is clear. She’s hitting something. Someone.
And even though the picture is blurry enough to keep her technically unidentifiable, I know what happens if the original file is pulled. High-resolution. Enhanced. Cleaned up in a lab with better software than the crap filters I have at my disposal here.
That version could end her.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. My options are limited, and every one of them is dirty.
Finally, I reach for the burner again and scroll to the only number I can dial without thinking twice.
“Yeah?” The voice is gravel and whiskey, answering on the second ring.
“It’s me.”
A pause. Then a chuckle. “Christ, Noah Grant. Thought you forgot how to dial.”
“I need a favor.”
“Of course you do. You only call when you need a favor.”
“Not for me,” I say, sharper than intended. “For someone else.”
Another pause, longer this time. “This a friend kind of ‘someone,’ or a ‘don’t ask too many questions’ kind of someone?”
I close my eyes. Elle’s face burns behind my lids, half defiant, half terrified.
“Don’t ask.”
He exhales smoke straight into the phone. “Then tell me what you need.”
“There’s a security company. Black Sky Surveillance, out of Orange County. They host all their footage in the cloud. I need one file gone. Completely gone. No backups, no mirrors, no ghost data on the servers.”
