Page 77 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer

I change tactics.

“We had the weirdest case come in,” I say.

“Is the interrogation over?” Elle asks, chin hitching stubborn.

“We’re just talking, Babe.” My hands go up, empty.

She half-laughs to say she doesn’t believe me. Fair. So, I add in a low voice, “Let’s keep it that way.”

Her head jerks up and her eyes widen. I can only hope she’s finally picking up what I’m putting down.

“What case?” Amy asks.

“Couple of nut jobs tried to dump something at a construction site,” I lie.

Her face blanches.

“Which might’ve worked,” I say, casual, “if the city hadn’t flagged the lot for underground utility mapping. Crew’s verifying soil compaction tomorrow, realigning sewer access for the fancy eco-homes going in. People like their waste flowing where it’s supposed to.”

Silence. I don’t think either of them is breathing.

“Anyway,” I add, “night crew saw fresh tire tracks. Disturbed soil near a southeast pit. Nothing dramatic. Just… wrong. Someone backed in, bailed fast. Left a corner of a blue tarp.”

Amy makes a strangled sound that could be cough, prayer, or both.

I meet Elle’s eyes. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“No,” she says.

I nod once. “Good. Because whoever did it? Amateurs. Could’ve gotten themselves caught. Or worse.”

“Worse than being caught?” Amy whispers.

“Construction accidents happen,” I say. “People fall into things they can’t get out of.”

Amy licks her lips. “So, hypothetically,” she says, “if your construction nut jobs accidentally… you know…” She flaps a hand like punctuation. “What would they do now? Hypothetically.”

“Amy.” Elle’s warning is a knife in silk.

“What? I’m curious about what these idiots might do in their hypothetical situation.”

I don’t smile. “Hypothetically? They’d stop making mistakes,” I say. “They’d stop doing anything memorable. Or on camera. They’d get dull. The kind of dull nothing sticks to.”

Amy nods like a bobblehead. “I can get dull. It’s practically my middle name. Amy Dull-as-Fuck Person.” A hiccup. “Now I really have to pee.”

Elle softens. “Go.”

Amy vanishes down the hall, held together by sheer will and poor choices. The house shrinks around us. Back to the fridge hum, the neighbor’s sprinkler, the space between our breaths.

“You done?” Elle asks.

The kitchen goes that specific, heavy quiet—right before a glass tips and shatters.

“With the talking?” I say. “No.” I rake my palm over stubble I didn’t get to this morning. “With the warning, yeah.”

She steps in. Not coy. Not aggressive. Intentional. The counter edge grazes my hip when I adjust my stance; the heat off her skin eats the distance.

“Why are you really here?” she asks.