Page 22 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer
I crab walk back and wait.
“Doug?” I hiss.
Nothing.
One of the landscape pavers lies shattered under his head. The gnome remains intact.
I creep a little closer. “Doug?”
Nothing.
I stretch one arm out to press my fingers to his neck. No pulse.
Shit.
I try again, different spot. Nothing.
I try his wrist. My own pulse is hammering so loudly I can’t separate it from his. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m not trained for this. I’ve seen it on Grey’s Anatomy, sure—but watching TV doesn’t mean you know how to check for signs of life in a man you just bludgeoned with a paver.
“Doug,” I whisper again. Louder this time. I slap his face. Nothing.
I start to laugh. It bubbles out of me like a gas leak, sudden and dangerous. I’m laughing so hard it hurts. Because this isn’t funny. It’s the opposite of funny. And my brain is short-circuiting.
I drop back onto the grass.
What have I done?
I killed someone.
I didn’t mean to. It wasn’t premeditated. I didn’t want this. But here I am, soaked and trembling and sitting beside a man who would’ve killed me without blinking. Does that make it okay?
I shake my head. Doesn’t matter.
Except it does. Because if I’m honest—really honest—I didn’t want him to walk away either. Not after what he did. Not after what he tried to do.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
“What do I do?” I whisper aloud. The sprinklers are the only reply.
I can’t call the police. They’ll arrest me. I’ll go to prison. They’ll take my kids. I can’t—I can’t let that happen.
My stomach lurches. I swallow hard and press a hand to my mouth.
It’s fine.
It’s fine.
That’s a lie. It’s not fine. It’s never going to be fine again.
I’m sitting in my neighbor’s backyard with a corpse, a ceramic slaughter statue, and a broken paver stone.
Everything’s changed. My life. My kids’ lives. Doug’s, obviously.
Maybe there’s a way out of this.
Maybe.
God, I hope so.
