Page 27 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer (Summers in Seaside)

twenty-six

. . .

Noah

I push through the front doors of the school, my heart racing with anxiety. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and the air is thick with the scent of disinfectant and burnt coffee.

Not too unlike the police station.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for Elle Grant,” I say, stopping just short of the front office desk. My voice sounds calm, but there’s a low thrum of unease building in my chest. “She’s here for a meeting with the principal.”

The woman looks up from her paperwork, adjusting her glasses as she registers my face. “And you are?”

“Noah Grant. Her husband.”

“Oh. I wasn’t aware she had…” she trails off awkwardly.

“I’ve been…away… on business,” I explain just as awkwardly.

“Well, Mrs. Grant has already been here,” she says. “She and Jill left about ten or twenty minutes ago.”

Jill? She’s never been the one to get into trouble before.

I blink. “Not Jaq?”

The woman gives a small shake of her head.

I nod, mutter a thank you, and head back outside. The heat hits me like a wall. Bright sun, no breeze, just the sound of kids still on the playground in the distance and the weight of unanswered questions pressing against my chest.

I climb into the SUV, turn the ignition, and grip the wheel hard enough to crack something. My jaw’s already tight. I tell myself not to overthink, not to go there—but I’m already halfway down that road.

I start to back out, glancing once toward the sidewalk.

That’s when I see them.

Hood up. Backpack slung low. Hands in their pockets, head down like they’re trying to blend into the pavement.

Jaq.

Walking.

Alone.

My breath catches. My foot slams on the brake.

I’m out of the car before I know what I’m doing.

“Jaq!”

Their head jerks up.

And for one second that excited flash of oh, hey, I’m happy to see you , before their expression shutters and they look away.

They keep walking.

But not fast.

Not running. Not pushing me away.

Just… not sure.

I catch up in a few strides. I don’t touch them. I don’t force anything. I just walk beside them for a few seconds, my heart pounding in a rhythm I haven’t felt in years.

“Hey,” I say quietly. “I didn’t know you were— I mean, I just saw you.”

“So, you, uh, walking home?” I try again.

“No, I’m training for a marathon.” Dry. But not cruel.

I almost laugh. It’s such a Jaq answer I don’t know what to do with it.

I try again. “You want a ride?”

They don’t answer right away. Just stares ahead at the stretch of sidewalk like it might solve everything if they just keep walking.

Then, finally, they sigh. “I guess.”

We walk in silence back to the SUV. I try to open the passenger door for them, but they do that teenager thing where they walk around and open it themself, like they need that one sliver of control.

I don’t push it.

They get in. Buckle up. Stare out the window.

I slide in behind the wheel and sit there for a second before pulling away from the curb.

“What’re you doing out here?” I ask.

“I’m not supposed to be,” they mutter. “I skipped.”

That lands.

“You skipped school,” I repeat, not sure whether to be angry or relieved.

They shrug again. “Felt like it.”

I nod slowly. “Does your mom know?”

“Probably not.”

Great.

And now I’m in the middle of a situation I haven’t had the right to be in for years.

I glance at them again. They are older. Taller. Hair longer. Jaw sharper. But the way they curl slightly toward the window, like they want to disappear—that’s the same.

They used to do that before I left. When they were trying to figure things out going into puberty. When the world felt too heavy and nothing made sense.

“You hungry?” I ask, voice low. “Want to grab a burger before we head back?”

They don’t say anything for a beat.

Then: “Yeah. Okay.”

And it’s not forgiveness. It’s not a fix.

But it’s a start.

And I’ll take it.