Page 42 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer (Summers in Seaside)
forty-one
. . .
Elle
Knock. Knock.
Amy and I freeze. The tequila sits between us on the counter like a silent witness. Everything in the house holds its breath.
Three more knocks.
Measured. Calm. Unbothered.
“I can’t,” Amy whispers.
I don’t respond. I’m already walking to the door like I’ve been summoned.
I open it.
Noah stands there under the porch light, rolled-up sleeves, hands in his pockets, jaw tight with the kind of stillness that says he’s not here to yell.
He’s here to ruin you quietly.
“You left your back gate unlatched,” he says.
I blink. “Were you?—”
“Watching?” he finishes. “Yeah.”
Amy makes a wheezing sound behind me.
“Since when?”
“Since before you left for the construction site. Off and on all night.”
My stomach drops. “You were following us.”
“I was making sure you didn’t make it worse.”
“Define worse,” Amy mutters.
Noah doesn’t acknowledge her. He brushes past me like it’s his house and crosses through the house toward the backyard.
We follow.
The air outside is damp with the smell of fresh dirt and panic. The grave isn’t even pretending to look innocent. Just a sad, lumpy patch of yard with some half-hearted rake lines that scream amateur hour.
Noah stands at the edge of it. Silent.
Then he crouches. Presses his palm into the dirt. Runs a finger along the edge.
“Too shallow,” he mutters.
Amy exhales hard. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“You went maybe two, two and a half feet.” He straightens, brushing his hands off on his jeans. “You need five. Minimum. Six is better.”
“There were roots,” I say defensively. “And clay. And shoveling is hard.”
“I know, baby. I saw you struggle.”
My cheeks burn. “You didn’t think to say something?”
“Or help?” Amy adds.
“I wanted to see how far you’d go.”
Amy groans. “Can we skip the part where you psychoanalyze us through your cop-guy lens and skip ahead to the part where we all go to jail?”
Noah’s eyes stay on me. “You’re not going to jail.”
“You sound awfully sure.”
“I am.” He takes a step toward me, voice low and certain. “Because I’m going to fix this.” He gestures to the new grave.
Amy straightens. “Hold on. What ?”
“Not right now,” he adds. “It’s too fresh. And the soil’s unstable. If I dig more now, someone will notice.”
“What do you mean? Like who?” I ask, suddenly aware of how exposed we are out here.
“Anyone. The nosy neighbor with the bird feeders. The kid with the drone. A meter reader who decides to wander. Doesn’t matter.”
“Nancy,” I say.
He looks at me quizzically.
“Nancy is the nosy neighbor.”
“Nancy.” He snaps his fingers. “That’s who was at Tom Brady’s house with the widow.”
“Sounds about right,” I say. “She’s a total busy body.”
“I remember that,” he says with a soft smile.
“Okay, so you’re… what? Just going to wait until the heat dies down and sneak back like some criminal contractor?” I ask.
He scans the yard again, like he’s already measuring it. “I’ll dig it deeper. Line it. Compact the base. Then I’ll build over it.”
Amy looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “Build what , exactly?”
“Something permanent,” he says. “Patio. Outdoor kitchen. Raised planter box. Hell, maybe a fire-pit. With stone. Something no one will ever think to move.”
“You’ve done this before,” I say before I can stop myself.
His eyes flick to mine. “Yes.”
Amy lets out a low whistle. “You know, when I said we needed a man around here, this wasn’t what I meant.”
Noah glances at her, deadpan. “You get the fringe benefit of being best friends with the woman I can’t live without. You’re welcome.”
Amy stares at him, then at me. “Wow.”
“I don’t know what to say to that,” I mumble.
“You don’t have to,” Noah says.
Amy takes a slow step back toward the house. “You know what? I’m gonna go.”
“Now?” I ask, following her.
“Yeah. I’d like to not be here when that inevitably explodes into something naked and complicated.”
“Amy,” I start, but she holds up a hand.
“I love you, but I also know when I’m third-wheeling a psychosexual crisis. And this is so that moment.”
She disappears inside.
The silence she leaves behind is immediate and enormous.
Noah and I just stand there in the waning moonlight, staring at each other. The grave between us like a line we both know we already crossed.
“You saw everything,” I say.
“I did.”
“Were you ever going to stop us?”
“If it looked like you were going to get caught, yeah.”
“And if we had?”
“I would’ve lied.”
My throat tightens. “Why?”
“Because you looked scared. And desperate. And like a woman trying to hold herself together with duct tape and sarcasm.”
“That woman is a nut job.”
He steps closer. “She’s not. She’s just tired. And angry. And pretending this doesn’t feel like hell.”
My mouth opens. Closes.
“I should turn you in,” he says. “I should report you. Call it in. Do the job.”
“Then do it.”
We’re inches apart now.
“You killed someone,” he says quietly.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“But you buried him.”
I nod. “Because I didn’t know what else to do.”
“You should’ve called me.”
“You’re the reason I know how to hide a body,” I snap. “Remember? You used to talk through your cases like I was your partner. Like it was a game.”
He flinches—barely. But I see it.
We’re too close now. His breath touches mine. The heat coming off him is making it hard to think.
He leans in slightly. “Do you regret it?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “Maybe.”
“Do you regret me?”
I flinch like he’s slapped me. “That’s not fair.”
“Neither is this.” His hand brushes mine. “But we’re here.”
And then something in me just breaks.
Or maybe it cracks open—finally—under the weight of everything I’ve tried to suppress. The fear. The guilt. The ache.
Because this man? This infuriating, impossible man?
He saw everything.
And stayed.
And now he’s going to bury the body for me.
I lunge at him like I’m trying to hit him—but it’s not a hit. It’s not anything like that. It’s a pull. A desperate, angry collision.
He meets me halfway.
And when his mouth crashes into mine, it’s not sweet or soft. It’s not forgiveness. It’s not even comfort.
It’s everything we shouldn’t want.
But can’t stop needing.