Page 18 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer

I yank on Noah’s old flannel, silk sleep shorts, shove my feet into Chucks, and slip out my back gate. It isn’t until I’m halfway down the path that I realize how stupid I’m being. I don’t have a weapon. I’m not law enforcement. There are no tricks up my sleeve to defend myself or apprehend someone. I didn’t even bring my cell phone with me. I should turn around, call 9-1-1, and be done with it. But by the time I sprint home and make the call, Doug could already be inside, and if Celeste’s in there…

There’s a reason curiosity kills the cat. Because the dumbass cat should’ve minded its own business.

That’s me. I’m the fucking cat.

But the image of Celeste sleeping while some creepy lurker breaks in won’t leave me. So I keep going. And if she’s in danger, I’ll risk being the fucking cat every damn time.

The Jenkins’ back gate is wide open, like an engraved invitation to disaster. My steps are soft on the sand walkway as I creep closer, ducking behind the gazebo.

This creepy lurker is jimmying the lock on Celeste’s window. And it’s the hardest damn window in the whole house to crack. Idiot. I should know, I’ve helped Celeste do it.

I weave around the gazebo toward the water feature, nearly take myself out on one of Mrs. Jenkins’ unusually large garden gnomes, and crouch. The gnome is my only cover now, its wide-eyed little face staring at me like, really, lady?

Creepy Lurker fumbles and fails, pathetic in his attempt. I’m tempted to offer my assistance, just to put us both out of our misery. Him, for being such a shitty burglar. Me, for standing here in the middle of the night wearing too little clothes watching him.

A laugh escapes before I can stop it. I slap a hand over my mouth.

His head whips around. I freeze; thankful the flannel is navy and blends into the shadows.

Navy. Like Noah’s eyes when he’s turned on. Or when he’s fucking. The man has beautiful eyes. God, can he fuck. My thighs clench.

Abort thoughts, Elle. Abort. You’ve got a burglar to deal with, not a drought to wallow in.

The moon shifts. His face catches the light.

Doug.

Fucking.

Finch.

Of course.

Who else would bumble through a B&E like a drunk raccoon with butterfingers?

My first instinct is to bolt home, call 911, and let the professionals handle it. But Celeste is in there.

If he gets in before anyone shows up…

Heat floods my veins. Protective, furious heat.

So, I do what any irrational, sleep-deprived, overly loyal neighbor would do. I step out from behind the gnome and hiss:

“What the fuck are you doing, Doug?”

eleven

. . .

Tall Man and Short Man

The two menstop in the middle of the alley, both panting, shirts plastered to their backs.

The body between them—wrapped in a plastic sheet—slips lower, its legs dragging along the dirt. A wetsquelchfollows, like someone threw a wet sponge at the wall.

“Christ,” the tall one mutters, adjusting his grip. His hand slides, leaving a smear of something dark across his palm. “He’s leaking again.”

The shorter one wrinkles his nose. “That’s not leaking. That’sdraining.”