Page 100 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer

“Secondary pass,” I say.

She stamps the ticket. “Lucky finds.”

“Sometimes the gods of bad inventory smile,” I say.

She snorts. “They never smile on me.”

I leave before she can ask me why my hands are shaking.

Outside, the night is colder. The wind skates down Maple and finds the sweat at the base of my neck. I should go home. Instead, I drive toward the coast and park. My phone buzzes on the seat. A text from an unknown number:

Tip rec’d re churro vendor dispute Flagging for follow-up tomorrow.

There’s a winky face, which means Santos, which means I owe a favor I can’t afford.

I toss the phone back like it burned me and stare at the water until everything I see is a blur and my chest becomes a drum I can’t slow.

I could go home. Tell Elle what I did. Ask her what she did. We could lay the whole filthy thing out on the kitchen table, right next to the pile of mail she pretends is organized.

I don’t.

Instead, I open my notes app and type two lines that look like a grocery list:

— call CementCo about patio estimate

— find contractor who can pull permit fast

Make the lie true before anyone can call it a lie. Build something pretty and permanent on top of the thing that will ruin us. Patio, outdoor kitchen, something to hide the scar and give the neighbors something to compliment. Make Amy a fringe benefit so she stops asking dangerous questions with that cartoon voice she uses when she’s scared.

The screen lights my hands like they belong to a stranger. I put the phone facedown and sit in the dark, a man-shaped bruise with a badge.

In the morning, I’ll tell myself I did what I had to. That I protected an innocent woman from a system that eats the complicated ones first. That the man in the truck wasn’t worth tearing her apart for.

But tonight, parked under a dead streetlamp with exactly enough light to see my own reflection in the glass, I can’t tell the story clean.

Maybe I saved her.

Maybe I just enabled her.

Maybe I’m building a patio over a grave and calling it love.

I wait to see how I feel. Then I wait longer. Then I drive, slow and quiet, back home.

forty-nine

. . .

Noah

The kids havea half day at school and we spend the rest of the day in the pool, enjoying one another as a family. It’s so fucking idyllic I almost make myself sick with how much I get off on it. I’m not on call, Elle has her assistant running her shop, we don’t have a body to bury, at least for now, and as far as I’m concerned the day couldn’t get more perfect.

The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a warm golden hue over the backyard as I set up the grill. It hasn’t been used in a while, clearly, but it’s clean and it lights and I don’t need much to grill a mean steak. The scent of searing steak fills the air, mingling with the faint aroma of blooming flowers from Elle’s garden.

Laughter echoes around me, and I can’t help but smile as I glance over at Jill and Jaq, who are racing around the yard with Kiki VonTrousers, throwing a ball back and forth to see who the dog will take down first to get at it. Their faces lit up with joy that fills my fucking heart. This is what I’ve missed—this chaotic, beautiful family dynamic.

Elle steps out of the house, her hair catching the light just right, and for a moment, everything else fades away. She’s wearing a sundress that sways gently with her movements. Onimpulse, I grab my phone and queue music to the outdoor speakers.

My heart skips a beat as she approaches, a soft smile playing on her lips.