Page 25 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer
“Okay, okay. We just need to figure out what to do next.” She takes a deep breath, her eyes narrowing as she thinks through our options. “We can’t just leave him there.”
“I know!” My heart races as panic sets in again. “Don’t you think I know that? I tried to move him. I can’t do it by myself.”
“Elle,” she says firmly, grounding me with her gaze. “We are capable, intelligent, resourceful women. We can handle this like adults.”
“Adults?” I scoff bitterly. “What kind of adult gets into this situation?”
“The kind who needs to bury a body,” she replies matter-of-factly.
I stare at her for a moment, disbelief mingling with admiration for her calmness in this absurd situation. “You’re serious?”
“Deadly,” she says with a smirk that almost makes me laugh despite everything. For the first time I notice her outfit. She’s dressed in head-to-toe black looking comically bad-ass in tech pants, a slim fitting long-sleeve t-shirt, and a well-loved pair of Docs, complete with a beanie covering most of her bright red hair.
And then I realize she has brought a large duffel bag with her as well and the whole thing makes me smile because it’s kind of quintessential Amy to be so prepared.
“What’s in the duffel bag, Mr. Wolf?” I ask.
“Who’s Mr. Wolf?” she asks.
“He’s the clean-up guy fromPulp Fiction.You know, the one who comes to clean up the dead bodies after a kill. As in get rid of them.”
“Oh.”
“The joke isn’t as funny when you don’t get it,” I say drily.
“Don’t make it so esoteric then,” she says.
“Ohmigod, there’s nothing esoteric aboutPulp Fiction. It’s Quentin Tarantino. He’s a national freaking treasure.”
“I forgot you like those kinds of movies.”
“Everyone likes those kinds of movies.’
“Not me,” she says.
I roll my eyes at her.
“So, what’s the plan?” she asks.
“What do you mean, what’s the plan?” I ask back.
“What’s the plan? Like what are we doing?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I called you.”
“So, I need to come up with the plan?” she asks.
“Yes, you’re good with that stuff. I mean, look at you—you’re dressed the part, and you brought a murder bag.”
“It’s not a murder bag, exactly.”
“What is it then?” I ask.
“Shovels, duct tape, rope, face paint, rags, bleach, that kind of stuff.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t sound like a murder bag at all.”
“I watch a lot of true crime, and it never hurts to be prepared.”
