Page 3 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer
“Okay. Great.” Noah sounds as uncomfortable as I feel. “I’ll—uh—let you get back to…” He glances at my cart, his gaze roams the brie, the wine… then the jumbo box of condoms. His eyebrow arches.
My soul tries to eject from my body. “Can’t be too careful,” I blurt, instantly regretting oxygen it took to say it.
Something shifts in his expression—gone as fast as it came—but it’s enough to make me wish I could shove the condoms under that nearby mango display.
“Right.” His eyes flick to the condoms in my cart, and then back to me, scanning in that way he used to—like he’s checking for damage only he’s allowed to fix. It’s unsettling in that way where I’m not sure if I want to run away or step closer. “I was going to ask if we could talk, just me and you. About us. But it looks like that’s a no.”
My brain short-circuits somewhere betweenwhy he sounds like thatanddon’t say something dumb.
“Yeah.” I hitch my purse higher on my shoulder, pretending I’m not clutching the straps like they might keep me from toppling over. He looks devastated.
“I mean, sure, we can talk, definitely.”
His mouth tips into the kind of smile that says he heard everything I didn’t say. His phone buzzes. He glances at it, then at me. “I have to take this,” he says, eyes lingering like a thread that won’t quite snap.
“Grant.” He barks into the phone, already half-turning away. Of course. Always leaving. I watch him transition to the no-nonsense homicide detective. And just like that, he turns and is gone, leaving me staring at a wall of pickles and wondering how in the hell I’m supposed to breathe normally again.
It’s not until I’m walking to my car that I realize my mother is somewhere experiencing a psychic burst of smug satisfaction that I did, in fact, run into my ex looking like hell.
two
. . .
Noah
The street’salready swarming with cop cars and busybodies by the time I pull up, but all I can think about is Elle. Seeing her this morning for the first time in over two years was like getting blindsided with a bullet I couldn’t dig out. I couldn’t find the right words. Didn’t even come close. And now she’s stuck in my head, the echo of her voice louder than the sirens.
Of course she looked good. Infuriatingly, unfairly good. That’s what she does—makes a man forget he’s standing in a triple-digit heatwave staring down what’s probably a homicide.
Crime scene tape flaps across the lawn like yellow bunting strung up for some fucked-up parade. Neighbors hover behind hydrangeas and blinds, pretending not to stare while sipping pressed juice and slurping down the gossip. It’s the suburbs—no one misses a spectacle. And for a weekday morning, the turnout is especially thick. I picked a hell of a day to come back to the force.
I kill the engine, grab my gas station coffee, and step out into the humid air. Sweat breaks along the back of my neck under the sports coat I already regret. A couple of uniforms part like the Red Sea when I flash my badge.
“Victims in the garage,” one tells me. “Or at least… what’s left. Wife found him—er, it—around nine-thirty when she went for ice. Far as I know, it’s just the head. Not a pretty sight, Detective. Brace yourself.”
I nod, duck under the tape, and head up the drive. It’s a nice place—white brick, navy shutters, a landscaping bill that probably came with a mood-board-obsessed designer. And then there’s the garage.
A small knot of uniforms stands around a deep freeze the size of a compact car. A man would fit with room to spare.
I snap on latex gloves. One of the officers lifts the lid, the icy air feels good against my overheated face. I lean in.
Vacant eyes stare back at me. Skin jagged where the neck should be, cut sloppy but wrapped neat. My head wants to jerk back at the visual assault, but I keep it steady, then set one finger against the forehead, rocking the head gently. One officer turns away, gagging. I swallow coffee threatening to come up.
“This feel frozen to you?” I ask. No frost, no freezer burn, no sticking to the food around it. If it was ever frozen, it isn’t now. Not that I know from experience what a frozen human head should feel like.
The rookie clears his throat. “I didn’t touch it, but… it doesn’t look like how I thought a frozen head would look.”
“Glove up and check,” I tell him.
His eyes go wide. “Really?”
“You gotta learn sometime.”
Another officer groans. “If we’ve gotta learn how to judge freezer-burned heads, I’m quitting. My mom wanted me to be a teacher anyway.”
“Looks to me like it was placed here recently.” I glance around.
“Can’t be longer than two days,” someone says. “That’s when he was last seen alive.”
