Page 46 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer
Long enough to do something. Long enough to see something.
Mason raises an eyebrow. “Could be a witness. Could be involved. You want to run her through facial rec?”
I feel something tighten in my chest.
“Quality’s too low,” I say quickly. “It’ll flag ten thousand possibles and eat up the system for half the day.”
He squints at the photo. “You think it’s nothing?”
I shrug, casual. “Could be a dog-walker. Could be someone curious. Nothing about her posture says she’s panicking.”
“Still,” Sarah says, flipping another photo to the top of the stack, “it’s weird timing.”
I glance at the new photo. Another angle. Elle again, but this time her face is turned slightly more toward the lens.
My stomach drops.
They’re going to figure it out. Not today, maybe, but eventually. And when they do, she’s going to be dragged into something she might not walk out of.
Unless I do something.
I pick up the traffic cam folder and flip through it, lingering on the one image that’s clearest. I angle it under the light, nodding slowly like I’m analyzing.
Then I make my move.
“Let me take a closer look at these,” I say. “I’ll cross-reference time stamps with the canvass logs, see if any neighbors spotted her. Could give us a lead.”
Mason glances at Sarah, then shrugs. “Sure. Just keep us posted with whatever you need.”
I give him a nod and tuck the file under my arm like it’s routine. No big deal. Nothing to see here.
They move on to the next topic—coroner’s estimate on time of death, potential motive. I slip out of the room before anyone notices I’ve taken more than I should have.
Back at my desk, I drop into my chair and stare at the photo again. Elle. Wind-blown hair, dark pants, a sweatshirt I think I recognize from a drawer that used to be half mine.
What the hell were you doing there?
It doesn’t make sense.
Unless it does.
I pull open my bottom drawer and slide the file inside, beneath a stack of outdated warrants and junk paperwork. It’s not gone, not shredded, not erased—but it’s hidden. Out of rotation. For now.
I lean back in my chair, rubbing the bridge of my nose, already calculating next steps. I’ll go by her place tonight. Play it casual. Ask questions I’m not supposed to. Pretend I don’t already know the answer.
And if she lies to me—if I catch even a flicker of guilt in those eyes—I’ll figure out what she’s hiding.
But if someone else gets to her first…
No.
I won’t let that happen.
I get up, head down the corridor toward Records, and tell them I’m pulling additional footage for case cross-checks. Just covering my bases. No one questions it.
No one ever does.
By the time I return to my desk, the precinct’s energy has shifted—noisy, alert, the scent of fresh coffee now replacing the old. But I don’t hear any of it. Not really.
