Page 8 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer
“Alright,” she says. “Start from the beginning.”
four
. . .
Noah
I tossmy keys on the credenza that doubles as a TV stand and a dresser. They clatter louder than they should in the too-quiet room. The faint smell of stale coffee and industrial-strength air freshener clings to the air like regret. Beige walls. Gray carpet. A bedspread patterned with geometric shapes no human has ever chosen on purpose.
Not home. Just a holding cell. A layover until I figure out how the hell to walk back into the life I torched.
I shut my eyes and see her. Elle. Hair a little messy, Nirvana shirt soft and worn—mine, once. She looked startled when she turned and saw me, like she wasn’t ready. Like I wasn’t supposed to be there. And maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m not.
Two years without her voice, and then suddenly it’s there again, wrapping around my name in a way that hit me square in the chest. I’ve been in gunfights that rattled me less.
Undercover work had its perks. The money. The power. The house in South America with marble floors and an infinity pool—like a Bond villain starter pack. But I never wanted opulence. I grew up steady. My parents left enough to pay off the mortgage early, set aside money for the twins. I had roots. A family. Noise.
And then I traded all of that for silence like this.
I drop onto the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, and pull up the photo I shouldn’t look at but always do—Elle and the twins at the beach, probably ten years or so ago. Jaq’s hair wild in the wind, Jill’s grin full of missing teeth, Elle behind them with sunglasses and a smile that could’ve lit me up even from a thousand miles away. Sun. Salt. Home. Frozen in a moment I should've lived. Instead of pretending to belong in a world that ate men alive. Playing dress-up with cartel bosses, living every day in a battle between what I wanted and what I needed to do.
There was a time when the chaos of my family life was in such stark contrast to the calculated calm of my undercover days that work felt almost like a break. I remember the first time I walked through the front door after being away on a long job. The house was filled with noise—kids arguing over who got to choose the movie for family night, Elle’s voice cutting through the din as she tried to mediate. It felt like stepping into a whirlwind, and I was just a leaf caught in its path.
But that whirlwind is what I crave now. I want to be part of it again, to feel the warmth of my family surrounding me instead of this cold hotel room. I left my family to fend for themselves while I was off playing hero. A bitter laugh slips out. Some hero. The only thing I saved was my own damn cover, while Elle kept everything else afloat. She patched scraped knees, killed spiders, kept the lights on, held it all together. Without me. Maybe in spite of me. The guilt gnaws at me like a relentless predator, always lurking just beneath the surface.
Now? I don’t know if they need me—or if I’m just a ghost they’ve already exorcised.
The memory hits—Elle, standing in the doorway, voice flat when she said she couldn’t wait anymore. That she couldn’t keep explaining to the kids why Dad might not come home this time. That she didn’t know when—or if—I’d ever be back. And I let herwalk. I told myself it was the job. That I was serving something bigger. But it felt less like sacrifice and more like surrender.
Now I’m sitting in this beige box with nothing but her voice in my head, saying my name like a secret.
I pace, boots sinking into tired carpet, and every step is an echo of the time I lost.
I want back in. Back with them. But wanting doesn’t erase what I chose. And guilt doesn’t win second chances.
So how the hell do I convince the woman I broke, and the kids I left behind, that I still deserve to be theirs? Truth is, I already gambled once and lost them.
Maybe this time, I don’t get to play.
five
. . .
Elle
The school pickupline is a battlefield. Minivans lined up like weary soldiers, parents scrolling on their phones, and me with a podcast I’m not actually listening to because my brain won’t stop looping Noah’s stupid smile.
Jaq and Jill tumble into the car, backpacks hitting the seat with the force of grenades.
“Can we get boba?” Jill asks.
“Can we not?” Jaq counters.
“Can we avoid a fight for, like, five minutes?” I mutter, pulling out into traffic. “We have cucumbers and tomatoes to plant.”
That buys me silence long enough to get home. The twins their clothes while I drag the gardening tools onto the side lawn with the best sun, pretending I know what I’m doing. In my defense, my little vegetable patch looks like it belongs to a woman who absolutely has her life together, which is hilarious, considering.
Jaq crouches to dig in the dirt, hair falling into their face, while Jill sprawls on the porch with her sketchbook. I’mwrangling the hose, cursing under my breath as it kinks, when I hear it?—
