Page 79 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer

Amy stares at me, her expression a mix of disbelief and fear. The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. I can almost hear the clock ticking in the background, each second a reminder that we’re running out of time.

Then she straightens, determination flickering in her gaze. “Okay. We need to move Doug, like, tonight.”

I nod, the gravity of her words settling heavily in my stomach. “We’re out of time,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “No more clever plans. No more hoping we get lucky.”

Amy’s mouth presses into a grim line as she processes what we’re about to do. “Backyard?” she asks, her tone clipped and efficient.

“Backyard,” I confirm, though the word feels like a lead weight in my mouth.

We both know what that means. It’s not just a physical act; it’s a finality

thirty-nine

. . .

Noah

I flickthe lock on my office door and sink back into the chair. My pulse won’t settle, no matter how many times I tell myself I’ve got control of this.

Because I don’t. Not really.

Not with the gnome photo floating around out there.

I pull open another folder, this one tucked deeper than the rest. Inside: a still frame printed off a private security feed, the kind that usually gets passed around like neighborhood gossip until someone finally drops it in the anonymous tip box.

Elle.

Grainy, low-resolution, but it’s her. My gut knew it the second I saw it. She’s caught mid-motion in the frame, hair wild, arm raised, wielding that stupid lawn gnome like a weapon. The thing looks ridiculous—smiling ceramic face, red hat tilted—but the impact is clear. She’s hitting something. Someone.

And even though the picture is blurry enough to keep her technically unidentifiable, I know what happens if the original file is pulled. High-resolution. Enhanced. Cleaned up in a lab with better software than the crap filters I have at my disposal here.

That version could end her.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. My options are limited, and every one of them is dirty.

Finally, I reach for the burner again and scroll to the only number I can dial without thinking twice.

“Yeah?” The voice is gravel and whiskey, answering on the second ring.

“It’s me.”

A pause. Then a chuckle. “Christ, Noah Grant. Thought you forgot how to dial.”

“I need a favor.”

“Of course you do. You only call when you need a favor.”

“Not for me,” I say, sharper than intended. “For someone else.”

Another pause, longer this time. “This a friend kind of ‘someone,’ or a ‘don’t ask too many questions’ kind of someone?”

I close my eyes. Elle’s face burns behind my lids, half defiant, half terrified.

“Don’t ask.”

He exhales smoke straight into the phone. “Then tell me what you need.”

“There’s a security company. Black Sky Surveillance, out of Orange County. They host all their footage in the cloud. I need one file gone. Completely gone. No backups, no mirrors, no ghost data on the servers.”