Page 83 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer

Elle

Knock.Knock.

Amy and I freeze. The tequila sits between us on the counter like a silent witness. Everything in the house holds its breath.

Three more knocks.

Measured. Calm. Unbothered.

“I can’t,” Amy whispers.

I don’t respond. I’m already walking to the door like I’ve been summoned.

I open it.

Noah stands there under the porch light, rolled-up sleeves, hands in his pockets, jaw tight with the kind of stillness that says he’s not here to yell.

He’s here to ruin you quietly.

“You left your back gate unlatched,” he says.

I blink. “Were you?—”

“Watching?” he finishes. “Yeah.”

Amy makes a wheezing sound behind me.

“Since when?”

“Since before you left for the construction site. Off and on all night.”

My stomach drops. “You were following us.”

“I was making sure you didn’t make it worse.”

“Define worse,” Amy mutters.

Noah doesn’t acknowledge her. He brushes past me like it’s his house and crosses through the house toward the backyard.

We follow.

The air outside is damp with the smell of fresh dirt and panic. The grave isn’t even pretending to look innocent. Just a sad, lumpy patch of yard with some half-hearted rake lines that screamamateur hour.

Noah stands at the edge of it. Silent.

Then he crouches. Presses his palm into the dirt. Runs a finger along the edge.

“Too shallow,” he mutters.

Amy exhales hard. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“You went maybe two, two and a half feet.” He straightens, brushing his hands off on his jeans. “You need five. Minimum. Six is better.”

“There were roots,” I say defensively. “And clay. And shoveling is hard.”

“I know, baby. I saw you struggle.”

My cheeks burn. “You didn’t think tosaysomething?”