Page 19 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer (Summers in Seaside)

nineteen

. . .

Noah

I pull up to a scene not dissimilar from yesterday mornings.

Same tape cordoning off the area. Same collective of nosy neighbors and passersby.

Same faint whiff of something rotting beneath the surface of this perfectly trimmed suburban dream community.

The big yellow truck is the centerpiece this time, isolated by the usual perimeter of blue and white uniforms, all standing around trying to look important while they wait for someone else to decide.

“Detective Grant!” one of the officers calls out, waving me over like we’re old friends and not two people who’ve barely exchanged more than three words.

He’s a rookie—fresh-faced, posture too straight, eyes wide with a blend of adrenaline and panic.

That green-around-the-edges eagerness that tells me this is probably his first real body.

“You’re gonna want to see this,” he says, voice pitched just slightly too high.

“Fantastic,” I mutter, stepping out of the car and adjusting my jacket.

It’s already warm, but I’m not ready to give up the appearance of control, and the jacket helps with that.

Keeps people from looking too closely at how little sleep I’ve had or how much coffee it’s taken to get me vertical this morning.

I follow him through the crowd. Onlookers cluster on the sidewalks, coffee mugs in hand, bathrobes still belted, their faces a blur of curiosity and concern.

A few of them are already filming on their phones.

Always with the phones. The air here feels strange—still, somehow.

Like even the breeze is reluctant to disturb the quiet and the houses themselves are holding their breath.

We approach the truck, parked awkwardly on the side of the street, like someone ditched it in a hurry.

The bright yellow paint is streaked with grime.

The bed is closed, but I can already feel it—that electric hum under my skin that tells me this scene is about to get worse. The smell is nauseating.

“Victims in the back,” the rookie says, his voice low. “Or what’s left of him. Think it’s the body that belongs to yesterday’s head?”

“I guess we’re about to find out,” I say.

I’ve seen death before. Hundreds of times.

Different kinds. Quick ones. Slow ones. Messy.

Clean. Violent. Indifferent. But there’s always that pause, that tiny flicker of hesitation before you look—like your brain wants to protect itself from whatever’s on the other side.

It never works, of course, but the instinct stays.

The rookie unlocks the tailgate and lowers it slowly, like he’s expecting something to jump out. I lean in. And there it is.

A man, large, headless, wrapped tighter than a mummy in industrial-strength cellophane. Zip ties cinched tight around the ankles and again where the neck ends. Bright red, like a warning. The whole thing looks like a grotesque gift someone didn’t want to unwrap.

“Truck is registered to Douglas Finch,” the rookie says, flipping through a small notebook.

The name hits my brain like a dull thud. Familiar.

“He’s a general contractor. Owns—uh—Finch-works Remodeling? Something like that. We’re trying to track him down now.”

“Check his home? Office?”

“Already in progress. We called the wife—said he went to bed around eleven last night. She assumed he left early for a job site when he was gone by the time she woke up.”

I nod, still staring at the plastic-wrapped horror in front of me. “Send uniforms to get statements from her and his office staff. I want a timeline.”

“Yes, sir.”

I step back, glance around. While the rookie keeps talking, I scan everything—the layout of the truck, the position of the tires, the angle of the front wheels.

Details. Details make or break a case. This truck wasn’t dumped here to be hidden.

It was left. Like someone wanted it to be found. Which makes me wonder—why now?

“You dust for prints yet?”

“Not yet. Waiting on forensics.”

“Push them. I want that report first thing.”

“Got it.”

My gut tells me this is the body that belongs to the head.

Otherwise we’re looking at two headless cases in Santa Luna, and that’s a bit much.

But we can’t solve a murder based on my gut.

Also, something doesn’t feel right about this body in this car.

Not with the way the car is parked, as though it’s a temporary stop.

And they didn’t even try to hide it. This was deliberate.

Intentional. Someone wanted this scene discovered.

Which leads me back to Doug. Possibly a killer. And possibly missing.

This body didn’t wrap itself in plastic and stuff itself in the bed of a truck parked on a random street corner.

And while the forensics team will do their dance, I already know what I’m looking at.

This is the headless body from yesterday.

Same zip ties. Same clean wrap job. Same grotesque efficiency.

“Holy shit,” I mutter under my breath, stepping back instinctively. I can’t help but think of Elle and the kids. They’re (hopefully) safe at home, blissfully unaware of the darkness lurking just beyond their doorstep.

Only, what if this isn’t an isolated event? What if there is a killer loose in Santa Luna? And what if there are two bodies?

The thought sends a fresh wave of nausea through me.

“Canvass the neighborhood also. See if any of the houses with a decent vantage point also have door cameras. Lock down the footage immediately and get it to me.”

“Yes, sir,” the rookie says.

I lean in closer again, forcing myself to look at the body not as a corpse, but as a clue. This wasn’t random. This wasn’t a robbery gone wrong or some junkie’s desperate mistake.

This was personal.

The precision, the packaging, the placement. Someone wanted to send a message. Which means this man—whoever he was—mattered. Not to the killer, maybe, but to someone.

“What did Doug have against him?” I murmur, mostly to myself. The rookie doesn’t answer. I didn’t expect him to.

There’s something else bothering me, too.

“Any blood, anywhere?” I ask even though I already know the answer.

The rookie shakes his head. “He wasn’t killed here, was he?”

“It’s not looking that way, no.”

Was it Doug? Or someone trying to frame him? Is that why the body is haphazardly thrown in the back of the truck?

I step back again, scan the scene one more time, and feel the tension tighten in my chest. There’s something off here.

I just need to figure out what.