Page 39 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer

“He could’ve seen you. Or smelled you.”

“Not helping.”

She looks at me. “Do you think he means it when he says he’s back for good?”

I grip the steering wheel tighter. “Noah doesn’t do casual drop-ins. He’s a full-commitment kind of guy. If he says he’s here, it’s for good.”

There’s a beat of silence between us as the SUV hums quietly down the street. Amy doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to. We both know the stakes just changed. Again.

Because if Noah’s investigating this mess, then the margin for error just shrank to the size of my willpower around carbs. And that is dangerously small.

twenty-one

. . .

Elle

I back theSUV into the garage and hit the button to close the door. Two of the three lights are burned out, so the only illumination is a single flickering bulb that casts twitchy shadows across the walls. It's less home improvement, more horror movie. A perfect setting for murder. Or body disposal.

Amy and I stand behind the car while I work up the nerve to open the hatch.

I pop it. Wince.

The smell hits first—sharp, sour, earthy. Could be real, could be in my head.

Then comes the sight: Doug, curled in a plastic burrito, one shoe off, hair matted. About as peaceful as someone brained with a garden gnome can look.

“This is your fault,” I whisper to him. “You scammed me, harassed me, leered at one kid, insulted the other. Now you’re biodegradable clutter.”

“Yeah,” Amy mutters. No argument.

We get him out of the car with gravity on our side. He thuds onto the painter’s plastic we spread over the concrete floor. My back threatens to give up supporting my body all together.Amy paces, brow furrowed, like she’s solving a particularly grim crossword.

The garage is too cramped with the car still in it. While she moves it to the driveway, I duck into the house, grab two Diet Cokes—when what I really want is tequila—and rejoin her.

“Ohmigod, this is so stressful,” Amy groans, stepping through the door. “I need a Xanax. Do you have any?”

“No.”

She frowns.

“But I have pot.”

“That’ll work.”

We’re halfway through the joint when Amy says, “Okay, we need to figure this out. How are we going to get rid of him?”

“Right.” I exhale. “Let’s brainstorm.”

“Well, first we list all the ways people dispose of bodies.”

“Thank you for explaining the word ‘brainstorm,’” I deadpan.

“Fine. What would Dexter do?”

“The serial killer from the show?”

“Do we know another Dexter?”