Page 41 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer (Summers in Seaside)

forty

. . .

Elle

The moon hangs low over my backyard, casting just enough eerie glow to make everything feel extra murder-y.

I’m shivering—either from the chill or the fact that we’re about to commit a felony.

Probably both. Everything is hushed in that heavy, middle-of-the-night way—like the universe is holding its breath.

Even the crickets seem to have called it a night. Shadows stretch long across the grass.

Amy stands next to me, shovel in hand like a demented Girl Scout. She’s equal parts disbelief and determination, with a side of “I really wish we’d pre-gamed this.”

“This is stupid,” I mutter, breaking the silence. “So stupid.”

“Yeah, well, stupid already happened,” Amy says, hefting her shovel onto her shoulder like a deranged suburban pirate. “Now we’re just doing damage control.”

I glance at her sideways. “Is this what damage control looks like? Because it feels a lot like accessory to murder.”

“Technically, I think I’m an accessory after the fact.” She tilts her head. “Maybe aiding and abetting? I don’t know. I didn’t pay enough attention in that one law class I took after my divorce.”

“Remind me again why I called you?”

“Because I’m dependable and I brought tequila.”

Touché.

“Okay,” I say, trying to fake confidence. “Let’s just get this over with before I throw up or start confessing to squirrels.”

Amy nods solemnly. “Where do you want to put him?”

I scan the yard. Not exactly a lot of good options. “There,” I point toward the fence, where some overgrown bushes look like they’re trying their best to mind their own business. “Out of sight. Sort of.”

“Perfect.” She’s already moving.

God help us both.

I shove my shovel into the ground and immediately hit a root. “Shit.” The jolt travels up my arm like it’s personal, and I wince. “This is going to take forever.”

Amy gives me a sympathetic look and starts digging next to me. “We’ll trade off. Fifteen-minute shifts. Like graveyard CrossFit.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” she says.

The dirt is uncooperative—too dry in some places, too clay-packed in others. Every time I lift a shovelful I imagine Doug’s smug face judging me from beyond the grave. Which is ironic, because if things go according to plan, he’s not getting a headstone.

Sweat drips down my back, and I’m already regretting wearing my “World’s Okayest Mom” t-shirt and leggings as opposed to a tank and shorts. I switch with Amy after ten minutes, not even pretending to have the stamina for fifteen. She takes over, grunting dramatically as she stabs at the earth.

“You know,” she pants, “I thought my night was going to end with a bath bomb and an episode of Naked and Afraid . Not this.”

I smirk, using my sleeve to wipe my forehead. “We’re basically starring in our own version.”

“True,” she says. “Except with more bodies and less blur censorship.”

Another ten minutes pass in silence, broken only by the sound of metal scraping dirt and the occasional swear word from Amy when her foot slips.

I take the shovel back and keep going. We trade off like that—dig, complain, switch—until we’ve carved out a shallow grave about five feet long and two feet deep.

It’s not perfect, but neither is our life right now.

“My mother always said, “Never have a pet you can’t flush down the toilet, Elle, because digging graves is a pain in the ass” and she was right about one part, I suppose,” I say.

Amy laughs, half-heartedly. “I adore your mother, but she’s a bitch.”

“Yeah,” I chuckle just as half-heartedly. “That’s probably deep enough, right?” I ask, leaning on the shovel like it might hold me up emotionally too.

Amy peers down into the hole, hands on her hips. “I mean, it’s not six feet, but Doug’s not exactly royalty.”

I shoot her a look. “Talk about esoteric.”

“Kidding,” she mutters.

We walk back across the yard to where Doug is laid out on a tarp like some kind of clearance sale meat bundle. One shoe’s missing, his mouth slightly ajar. He doesn’t look peaceful so much as inconvenienced.

“This is so fucked up,” I say.

Amy nods. “On a scale of one to ten, it’s like… a seventeen.”

“How are we even supposed to lift him?”

“We do it fast. Like yanking off a wax strip. One, two, three—heave.”

We each grab a corner of the tarp and start dragging. Doug is still heavier than either of us expected—like dead-weight actually means something. Every step feels like we’re pulling a couch full of regret.

“Oh God, what did this guy eat?” I gasp, adjusting my grip. “Rocks?”

“He looks like someone who never said no to double meat,” Amy says.

Halfway to the grave, my foot catches on a tree root, and I nearly face plant right into Doug, catching myself with a grunt.

“Jesus!” I hiss. I shudder to think what that landing would have looked like.

We finally reach the grave and position the tarp beside it. “Okay,” I say, catching my breath. “How do we get him in?”

“Roll him.”

“Roll him?”

“Yeah, like a giant sushi burrito.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“It’s effective.”

With synchronized, awkward teamwork, we tip the tarp and watch Doug slide into the grave with a dull thud. My stomach flips at the sound. Amy crouches down to adjust the tarp, as if getting it just right matters.

“It’s crooked,” she mutters.

“He’s dead.”

“Yeah, but things can still be tidy.”

I start shoveling dirt over him before I can think too hard about it. Amy joins in after a minute, and we fall into another rhythm—this one slower, more final. Each scoop feels heavier than the last. Not just physically. Morally. Existentially.

Halfway through, Amy says, “You know what this reminds me of?”

“If you say Pet Sematary , I swear to God?—”

“No. I was going to say that team-building exercise we did at that yoga-wine retreat. Remember? Where we had to move a log over an obstacle course?”

“This is not the same.”

“It’s a little the same. Except the log didn’t sexually harass anyone.”

I laugh—really laugh—and it feels wrong, but also necessary. Like if we don’t laugh, we’ll break.

By the time we pat the last bit of dirt into place, the moon’s shifted high overhead and my arms feel like jelly. The patch of earth looks mostly undisturbed. Mostly.

“Okay,” I say, stepping back. “If we get caught, we’re going with the ‘landscaping mishap’ excuse.”

Amy brushes dirt off her leggings. “And you accidentally landscaped an almost man-sized trench in the middle of the night?”

“Why not? People aerate their lawns. I’m just very committed.”

We collect the tools and head back to the house, limbs aching and minds buzzing. The kitchen light is on when we walk in, and for a second, I think I might cry just from the sheer normalcy of it.

Amy drops the murder shovel near the back door. “We need a drink.”

I nod, heading straight for the tequila. “To poor decisions,” I say, pouring us each a shot.

“To better follow-through,” she adds, clinking her glass to mine.

We down them in one go.

“Now what?” I ask.

Amy sighs and looks at the clock. “We wait. We pray. And tomorrow, we pretend this was all a fever dream.”

I nod, but deep down I know it’s not over.

Because lately it never is.

And just to prove that point, there’s a knock at the front door.