Page 62 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer

I tuck myself back in my jeans. “Give me a second.” Then step out onto the porch before I can change my mind. The cool night air slaps me sex sober.

It’s Frank from Records, his voice low like he already knows this call is trouble. “Grant, you sitting down?”

“Should I be?”

“There’s a photo making the rounds on the local tip line. Neighborhood security cam. Guess who’s in it?”

My stomach drops. “Just tell me.”

“Your ex. Elle. Grainy as hell, but it looks like she’s holding something—hell, I don’t know—a garden gnome? And swinging it at… well, something.”

I close my eyes. I have a feeling I already know what she’s swinging at. “Send it.”

Seconds later, the picture pings through. Blurry. Pixelated. But it’s her. My gut clenches.

“Already got flagged by two different analysts,” Frank says. “Once the higher-res file gets pulled from the server, she’s toast. You want me to kick it upstairs?”

“No.” My voice comes out sharper than intended. I force a breath. “No, I’ll handle it. Don’t mention it to anyone else. Not yet.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Anyway way you can…” I leave my request unsaid, at least officially. But we both know what I’m asking. Frank’s an old-timer just like me. It used to be easier to push investigations in a certain direction. Not in a nefarious way, obviously. But times when the system wasn’t your friend and a bad guy just needed to go down. This is not one of those times, but the result will still be the same.

Then Frank mutters, “You’re out of your damn mind,” before hanging up.

I stand there in the dark, staring at the image until the porch light flickers. My hands tighten around the phone.

Elle’s in deeper than I thought. And now I’m in it with her.

thirty-one

. . .

Elle

“Didyou just wake up from a nap?” she asks, setting the bag down.

“Kind of,” I admit.

“You’re all flushed and rumpled.”

“I almost fucked Noah to keep him out of the garage.”

Amy nods sagely. “That tracks.”

She hands me a paper bag. “Brought you food. Figured you might need something besides stress and vengeance, and apparently fucking, to live on.”

I peek inside. Tacos. “God, I love you.” I peel back the foil on the taco and take a bite so large it should be illegal. I moan. “I said almost fucked, not fucked.”

She waves a hand in the air dismissively. “Tom-ay-toe. Tom-ah-toe.”

I finish the taco in as few bites as possible and grab another. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was until just now.”

Amy grins. “That’s because you’ve barely eaten today, and you’ve been running on crisis mode, caffeine, and sexual deprivation.”

I chew, then pause. “And murder.”

“Right. Can’t forget the murder.” She leans back against the couch, eyes flicking toward the hallway. “How is Dougy-boy anyway? Still chillin’ in the garage?”