Page 22 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer (Summers in Seaside)

twenty-two

. . .

Elle

I’m standing in the garage, surrounded by a sea of clear plastic sheeting that clings to everything like a second skin. The air is thick with the smell of fresh plastic and something else—something that makes my stomach churn. Like a much stronger eau-de-dead-Doug.

Amy is wrestling with a roll of tape; her brow furrowed in concentration.

“Do you think this is enough?” I ask, gesturing to the plastic draped over the floor and walls. It looks like we’re prepping for a bizarre art installation rather than a dismemberment.

“More than enough,” she replies, finally managing to secure the tape. “He’s not even really going to bleed, right? Because his heart isn’t pumping.”

“I guess. But won’t there be other stuff in there? Like, guts and…stuff?”

“I didn’t think of that.”

This is surreal. One minute I’m dealing with a creepy contractor who never finished my bathroom, and the next, I’m preparing to chop him into pieces in my garage.

“Okay, so how do we even start?” I ask, looking at the pile of tools we’ve gathered—saws, knives, and a couple of heavy-duty garbage bags. “I mean, do we just…?”

“Just what?” Amy raises an eyebrow. “There should really be a manual for this.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s called the internet,” I mutter, feeling the weight of the situation settle heavily on my shoulders.

Because I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.

And I don’t particularly want to cut up a dead body; but I don’t want to get caught more.

And Noah’s back and I can’t even begin to unpack that yet. “We just have to do it.”

Amy stares at me for a long second. “Okay,” she says slowly. “But just so we’re clear—you mean, like… actually cut him up. Like, with a saw. And garbage bags. And maybe barf buckets.”

I nod. “Yeah.”

She glances down at Doug, then back at me. “You go first.”

“What?”

“You start. I’ll… support.”

“Support?” I ask. “Like moral support?”

“No, like I’ll hold the flashlight or something.”

I exhale sharply and grab the hedge clippers from her bag. I crouch down, position them over Doug’s ankle, and?—

Drop them immediately.

“Nope,” I say, standing so fast I nearly fall backward. “I can’t do it. I am not that person.”

“Thank God,” Amy breathes, dropping to sit on the deep freeze like she just survived a near-death experience. “Because I was going to faint, puke, or both. Probably both.”

We stare at the body again.

“So, what now?”

“New plan,” I say.

“Does this one involve less… dismemberment?”

“Ideally.”

She lifts the soda can we abandoned earlier and takes a long, flat sip. “Well, it better come fast. Because we’ve still got one body, no alibi, and the day is officially kicking our ass.”

I nod grimly. “Back to brainstorming.”

My phone buzzes on the workbench, cutting through my thoughts like a knife. Then buzzes again. Then goes full seizure mode. Amy’s phone follows suit.

MAMA DRAMA GROUP TEXT – Sandy, Molly, Jen, Elle, Amy

Oh God. Please let this be about school uniforms or gluten-free bake sale shaming. I do not have the bandwidth for a social emergency right now.

I open the thread.

SANDY: alert! Spotted jogging in the neighborhood. Posting pic…

Attached is a high-def photo of Noah. Running. Shirtless. Glowing.

With all his tattoos on display.

The sun hits him like he’s in a Gatorade commercial and a rom-com at the same time. His abs are glistening. His shorts are… ambitious.

MOLLY: Is it even legal to look this good in broad daylight??

I let out a noise that’s part sigh, part strangled choke.

SANDY: I refuse to believe that man is a real person. This is Photoshopped. Has to be.

MOLLY: Girl, you married that and let him go??

Amy snorts. “Do they not realize that’s Noah? Or are they just enjoying torturing you?”

“Both.”

JEN: Those shorts are… not leaving much to the imagination.

AMY: Thank you! I can basically see his… well, everything.

“See?” I mutter. “At least someone said something about the shorts.”

“They can’t be ignored,” Amy says.

MOLLY: I don’t hear you complaining, Elle.

SANDY: Look, I’m just saying—if we ever need a community morale booster, we slap this on a calendar. Mr. December, coming in hot.

JEN: He was always attractive, but this? This is… next level.

AMY: That’s cause he was never around to flaunt it.

ELLE: Thank you, Amy.

SANDY: Elle, how are you even functioning right now? If my ex looked like that, I’d still be married.

MOLLY: Preach.

ELLE: He has shin splints, snores like a freight train, and tells terrible dad jokes.

JEN: Yeah but imagine him telling one shirtless.

MOLLY: With those forearms. And that smirk.

I groan. “This is harassment.”

Amy grins. “Nope. This is entertainment.”

And yet, I stare at the picture way longer than I should.

He’s not even doing anything, and I can feel the tension buzzing under my skin, building pressure like it wants to explode. This is a problem. I don’t have time to be flustered by muscles and smirks and forearms that could write poetry but also strangle a man.

I need to stay focused. If I can do that long enough to devise a Doug disposal plan, avoid any continued group chat horniness, and work up the nerve to try my hand at dismemberment before the kids are out of school, I deserve a cookie.

Or a martini.

Or Noah’s arms around me again?—

His cock inside me.

Nope.

NOPE.

Back to plastic sheeting and alternates to massacring dead guys.