Page 33 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer (Summers in Seaside)

thirty-two

. . .

Noah

The precinct is quiet at this hour, just the hum of the vending machine down the hall and the low murmur of the night desk sergeant watching some old crime show on mute. My office smells faintly of secrets left too long in the dark.

I should go home. I should try to sleep, reset, tackle this in the morning with a clear head. But the problem is, clarity is the last thing I want. And time is the last thing this case needs. Both just lead further down the path straight to Elle.

She thinks I don’t know why her hands shook when she kissed me earlier to keep me from going in the garage. That I can’t read her like a fucking book. Like I don’t know exactly what she’s done and I’m ninety-nine percent sure how.

How I still want her anyway.

I lower into my chair, the leather groaning under my weight, and open the bottom drawer. The folder is right where I left it, stuffed with Doug’s life on paper: petty theft charges, noise complaints, contractor disputes, enough red flags to make a carnival.

And buried beneath all that, the flash drive. The stills from the traffic camera.

I hold it in my hand, turning the little stick of plastic between my fingers. It’s almost laughable that this tiny thing could ruin her life. One image uploaded to the case file, one signature on the chain of custody, and suddenly Elle is a person of interest.

I could log it right now. Hell, I should.

That’s what the badge demands. But my hand doesn’t move.

Because if I do, I know how it plays out.

That’s not the life I want for her. For our kids.

For me. I shove the drive into my pocket, pressing it flat against the lining. It won’t see the light of day again.

Instead, I pull a fresh legal pad toward me and start writing.

Step One: Destroy the pictures.

Already in motion.

Step Two: Build a narrative.

Doug Finch, disgruntled contractor, deep in debt, already on record as a drunk and a thief. Tie him to Tom Brady’s body, easy enough since the body was found in his truck. Make it look like Doug killed him and panicked.

Step Three: Erase the loose threads.

Witnesses, timelines, any hint Elle was near the scene.

I jot them down like commandments, the pen digging grooves into the paper.

The cork board across the room glares at me, plastered with crime scene photos. Tom Brady wrapped in plastic, bound with zip ties. A grotesque present left in a truck already seeping bodily fluids and polluting the air around it.

Doug’s truck. Doug’s mess. Doug’s scapegoat.

I drag Doug’s file closer and start flipping through it again. The man practically left a trail of breadcrumbs for me to exploit. Gambling debts with men who don’t forgive. Late-night bar fights. Sketchy side jobs where supplies went “missing.”

I spread the papers out across the desk like cards in a rigged hand. All I have to do is shuffle them into the right order.

Take the missing drywall from the Michaels’ job—make it look like Doug was reselling to fund his habit.

Take his fight with O’Malley’s bartender—tie it to a night a drunken John Doe was found. That’s two bodies he can take credit for.

Take his credit card charges—slot them neatly against the timeline I need.

No one will question it too hard. They’ll want to believe it. Hell, half the neighborhood already hated the guy.

I picture Elle again, standing in her kitchen with that brittle edge to her smile. She doesn’t trust me yet—not the way she used to. But if I do this right, she won’t have to know what I’ve done. She’ll just be safe.

The clock on the wall ticks louder, filling the silence. I push to my feet and start pacing, chewing at the inside of my cheek.

Planting evidence isn’t new to me. Not really. Every cop who lasts long enough bends the rules once or twice. A witness nudged. A report rewritten. A confession massaged until it fits.

At the DEA it was even worse.

But this? This is different.

This isn’t about the job. This is about Elle.

I rub a hand over my face, the stubble scratching my palm. I should feel guilty.

I don’t.

I just feel… resolute.

At my desk again, I pull out the pouch of burner phones and cash. Tools I’d sworn off years ago, back when Elle still believed in me. Back when I still believed in myself.

I take one burner out, slot in a prepaid SIM, and thumb through the call log. Empty. Perfect. This will be Doug’s phone now. A few texts to the right people, a couple of calls in the middle of the night—make it look like he’s scrambling, running scared.

I’ll seed the messages tomorrow. Something to the effect of:

“Job went bad. Don’t call me.”

“They’ll kill me if they find me.”

The kind of cryptic crap that fits perfectly in a conspiracy theory. People don’t need details—they fill them in themselves.

Next, I pull out Doug’s financials. Already a mess. And with a little creative highlighting, I can point it all straight to motive.

Big withdrawal the day the Tom Brady was killed? There it is.

Suspicious deposit from an unknown account? Sure.

It doesn’t even matter if it holds up under scrutiny. Once the idea is planted, it grows like mold.

I lean back, chair creaking, and stare up at the water-stained ceiling tiles.

My whole career’s been about finding the truth, but the truth has never mattered less than it does right now.

What matters is keeping her free. Keeping the kids from losing their mother. Keeping myself from losing her again.

The truth can burn.

I drag the file closed and shove it back into the drawer. I’ll add the false leads later—tuck them into the case file, drop breadcrumbs for the others to find. Let the investigation wander where I want it.

I grab the burner phone, slide it into my pocket, and kill the office light. The dark swallows me whole, the only sound my own breathing and the hum of the vending machine down the hall.

Doug Finch is going to be the monster who killed a man and ran.

Elle’s going to be a bystander who never got too close.

And me?

I’m the bastard rewriting the ending.