Page 80 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer

“Ballsy request. You plan on robbing a bank?”

“Nothing like that. Just… something stupid. A mistake.”

“You got identifiers?”

“Yeah.” I slide the paper across the desk and rattle off the string of letters and numbers printed along the bottom of the frame. Date. Camera ID. Server index. “It’s tied to an account out of Santa Luna. Residential.”

“Alright,” he says slowly, like he’s weighing whether the moneys worth the risk. “But if I pull this, there won’t be any getting it back. Gone means gone.”

“That’s what I want.”

A whistle. “Whoever this is, they must mean a lot to you.”

I don’t answer.

He doesn’t push. Just says, “Give me a few hours. And Noah? Don’t call me again for a long time.”

The line clicks dead.

I sit there with the phone heavy in my hand, staring at the blurry printout until my eyes ache. I should burn it. Shred it. Pretend it never existed. But part of me can’t. Because holding onto it feels like holding onto proof that she’s still mine to protect.

Eventually, I fold it in half, then in half again, until it’s a neat little square. I slip it into the same pocket as the traffic cam drive. Both warm against my thigh, both anchors dragging me deeper.

The plan is clear now.

Doug will be the killer. Elle will be invisible. And me? I’ll be the cop who keeps building lies until the truth suffocates underneath them.

forty

. . .

Elle

The moon hangslow over my backyard, casting just enough eerie glow to make everything feel extra murder-y. I’m shivering—either from the chill or the fact that we’re about to commit a felony. Probably both. Everything is hushed in that heavy, middle-of-the-night way—like the universe is holding its breath. Even the crickets seem to have called it a night. Shadows stretch long across the grass.

Amy stands next to me, shovel in hand like a demented Girl Scout. She’s equal parts disbelief and determination, with a side of “I really wish we’d pre-gamed this.”

“This is stupid,” I mutter, breaking the silence. “So stupid.”

“Yeah, well, stupid already happened,” Amy says, hefting her shovel onto her shoulder like a deranged suburban pirate. “Now we’re just doing damage control.”

I glance at her sideways. “Is this what damage control looks like? Because it feels a lot like accessory to murder.”

“Technically, I think I’m an accessory after the fact.” She tilts her head. “Maybe aiding and abetting? I don’t know. I didn’t pay enough attention in that one law class I took after my divorce.”

“Remind me again why I called you?”

“Because I’m dependable and I brought tequila.”

Touché.

“Okay,” I say, trying to fake confidence. “Let’s just get this over with before I throw up or start confessing to squirrels.”

Amy nods solemnly. “Where do you want to put him?”

I scan the yard. Not exactly a lot of good options. “There,” I point toward the fence, where some overgrown bushes look like they’re trying their best to mind their own business. “Out of sight. Sort of.”

“Perfect.” She’s already moving.