Page 2 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer (Summers in Seaside)

two

. . .

Noah

The street’s already swarming with cop cars and busybodies by the time I pull up, but all I can think about is Elle.

Seeing her this morning for the first time in over two years was like getting blindsided with a bullet I couldn’t dig out.

I couldn’t find the right words. Didn’t even come close.

And now she’s stuck in my head, the echo of her voice louder than the sirens.

Of course she looked good. Infuriatingly, unfairly good. That’s what she does—makes a man forget he’s standing in a triple-digit heatwave staring down what’s probably a homicide.

Crime scene tape flaps across the lawn like yellow bunting strung up for some fucked-up parade.

Neighbors hover behind hydrangeas and blinds, pretending not to stare while sipping pressed juice and slurping down the gossip.

It’s the suburbs—no one misses a spectacle.

And for a weekday morning, the turnout is especially thick.

I picked a hell of a day to come back to the force.

I kill the engine, grab my gas station coffee, and step out into the humid air. Sweat breaks along the back of my neck under the sports coat I already regret. A couple of uniforms part like the Red Sea when I flash my badge.

“Victims in the garage,” one tells me. “Or at least… what’s left. Wife found him—er, it—around nine-thirty when she went for ice. Far as I know, it’s just the head. Not a pretty sight, Detective. Brace yourself.”

I nod, duck under the tape, and head up the drive. It’s a nice place—white brick, navy shutters, a landscaping bill that probably came with a mood-board-obsessed designer. And then there’s the garage.

A small knot of uniforms stands around a deep freeze the size of a compact car. A man would fit with room to spare.

I snap on latex gloves. One of the officers lifts the lid, the icy air feels good against my overheated face. I lean in.

Vacant eyes stare back at me. Skin jagged where the neck should be, cut sloppy but wrapped neat.

My head wants to jerk back at the visual assault, but I keep it steady, then set one finger against the forehead, rocking the head gently.

One officer turns away, gagging. I swallow coffee threatening to come up.

“This feel frozen to you?” I ask. No frost, no freezer burn, no sticking to the food around it. If it was ever frozen, it isn’t now. Not that I know from experience what a frozen human head should feel like.

The rookie clears his throat. “I didn’t touch it, but… it doesn’t look like how I thought a frozen head would look.”

“Glove up and check,” I tell him.

His eyes go wide. “Really?”

“You gotta learn sometime.”

Another officer groans. “If we’ve gotta learn how to judge freezer-burned heads, I’m quitting. My mom wanted me to be a teacher anyway.”

“Looks to me like it was placed here recently.” I glance around.

“Can’t be longer than two days,” someone says. “That’s when he was last seen alive.”

“What else do we know?” I ask the officer with the strongest stomach.

He flips open a pocket notebook. “Vic’s Tom Brady. Owns that used car dealership over on State Street.”

I arch a brow. “Tom Brady?”

“Yeah. Name’s where the similarities end. No athlete. More like anti-Brady in every way.”

While they run down his bio—avid hunter, podcaster, founder of “ Animals Are Food, Not Pets ”—my mind flickers elsewhere. Elle would’ve had something cutting to say about this guy. Something sharp enough to make me bite my cheek not to laugh, even standing here over a severed head.

I force myself back to the present. “So, his wife says he left Saturday for his trip, no cell service, gone two weeks. Normal routine?”

“That’s what she told us.”

“And she stumbles on his head today by accident?”

They nod. “She came out for ice. Heatwave.”

I straighten, already missing the freezer’s cold blast. Triple-digit temps.

First day back in homicide. First day back in Santa Luna.

And I’m sweating through my coat thinking about Elle unpacking groceries ten blocks away, cursing that busted shopping cart.

Thinking about the way she looked at me this morning like she couldn’t decide whether to hug me or throw brie at my head.

“Any sign of the body?”

The one with the notebook shakes his head. “Did a sweep of the property, nothing here. We’ve got cadaver dogs on the way to check the neighborhood.”

When my transfer from the DEA came through, I didn’t hesitate.

One my (now) ex-partner and best friend, Ryder Locke, considers to be career suicide.

He’s right—it is. At the very least, it’s a significant demotion.

But I’d trade the cartel, the money, the adrenaline, for a chance to stand in my own kitchen again. For a chance at my family.

I’d been ready to leave the DEA years ago.

But then an old ghost stirred—a cartel leader I thought was dead.

Turns out he wasn’t. The only way to keep Elle and the kids safe was to disappear again.

Deep cover. She warned me she couldn’t take another extended assignment.

I left anyway. She filed. I let her. Better divorced than dead.

Now I’m done. No more lies. No more secrets. I’ll tell Elle enough to understand why I left. Enough to see I did it for them. The rest… the rest will stay buried.

“Anything else?” I ask, pulling myself back to the garage.

“Side door forced. Knob lock. Amateur job.”

I shake my head. People blow thousands on cameras but leave the garage door untouched like it’s Fort Knox. Amateurs.

“Forensics get what they need?”

“Think so. ME’s already been by. No time of death yet.”

Figures. Hard to pin down TOD when all you’ve got is a head.

I snap a few photos for myself before motioning the lab tech forward. He lifts the head out with a care usually reserved for bomb components. I strip off my gloves, drop them in an evidence bag. The freezer lid closes with a dull thud.

I scrub a hand down my face and feel the thin sheen of sweat that’s formed at my brow, and step inside. The house hums with too much AC that’s already fighting a losing battle against the heat and not enough comfort.

“Wife around?” I ask.

“In the living room,” an officer says. “EMS dosed her. Neighbors with her.”

I walk in slow, letting the domestic details hit—photos on the wall, laundry folded halfway, cereal bowl drying in the sink. Life, right up until it isn’t.

She’s curled on the couch; tissue crumpled in her fist. Beside her sits a wiry woman with sharp eyes and a bun that could survive a hurricane.

Recognition sparks—Nosy Nancy I think Elle calls the neighbor two doors down from her.

Which makes me wonder what the hell this lady is doing across town here.

“I’m Detective Grant,” I say, flashing my badge. “Mind if I ask you a few more questions?”

Nosy opens her mouth, but I shut her down with a look. The wife blinks at me, dazed. “I already told the officer everything.”

“I know. Sorry to make you repeat yourself.” I soften my tone. “Just want to walk through it once more.”

She nods. I sit across from her.

“You said your husband left Saturday?”

“Yes. Same cabin, same lake, a few times every year.” Her throat works as she swallows. “I packed his cooler. Kissed him goodbye. That was it.”

“Did he seem different this time?”

She shakes her head, trembling. “No. He was fine. Joked about the fish being better company than me.”

Charming.

“Do you know anyone who might’ve wanted to hurt him?”

Her eyes go wide. “No. People liked Tom. He volunteered at the VFW, had his gun clubs, his podcast—he wasn’t—” She breaks off, sobbing.

I give her a moment, then ask, “What about a calendar? Laptop? Phone?”

She shakes her head. “He might have a laptop upstairs. He would work in the guest room sometimes. At the car lot his secretary handles all of that for him.”

I nod and rise to my feet. “Thank you. We’ll need to take that.”

Back in the hallway, one of the officers falls into step beside me. “You think she did it?”

“She’s rattled and not thinking too clearly. Let’s see what turns up at the car lot, with the neighbors, any friends. We’ll circle back if we need to.”

He nods and jots a few notes down in his notebook.

We climb the stairs. I can feel the day getting heavier.

Not just the heat or the mess of this case—but the weight of being back.

Of breathing the same air as my kids again.

Of knowing Elle’s ten blocks away, probably replaying this morning just like I am.

I open the bedroom door. It’s clean, meticulously so. As if grief hasn’t had time to settle in yet. No dust on the furniture. Nothing to indicate anyone ever used the room. But most noticeably, no laptop.

“Find it,” I tell the officer. “Work, home, I want it all.”

He moves around the room; I glance out the window at cookie-cutter lawns, kids’ bikes, basketball hoops. Safety on display, the illusion of it unbroken even with sirens parked out front.

I rub the back of my neck. The case is heavy. But not as heavy as the thought of Elle at home with that look still in her eyes. The one that said she didn’t know whether to slam the door in my face or let me back in.

I didn’t just come back for the job. I came back for her.

And after this morning, I know I’m already fucked. Because I didn’t just see Elle. I remembered what it feels like to want her. And I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to stop.