Page 28 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer
I bite my lip and pivot, trying to steer her backward through the uneven grass, the scent of soil and fertilizer thick in my nose. We’re both wheezing now, slipping and grunting like a couple of out-of-shape grave robbers. By the time we reach the gate, my arms are shaking, my back is on fire, and I can feel something wet and thick sliding into my shoe. We drop his limbs with heavy thuds, both of us collapsing against the fence, panting like we just outran a SWAT team.
Amy stares down at Doug, then up at me. “You know what?” she pants. “Next time you kill someone, I’m hiring movers.”
fifteen
. . .
Elle
It takes almostan hour and sheer herculean feats of strength, along with three heavy-duty plant dollies and Kiki V-T’s orthopedic pet ramp, but we finally manage to get Doug out of the Jenkins yard and into the back of my SUV. The process leaves both of us covered in sweat, mud, grass, and a splash of eau-de-dead-Doug, which, as it turns out, is not a scent anyone is bottling soon. My arms feel like overcooked spaghetti noodles, my back is screaming in protest, and Amy has a smear of something questionable across her cheek that I don’t have the heart to point out.
I wish I could say that the pet ramp was my stroke of brilliance, it would’ve been nice to feel like a full participant in escaping the idiocy I’ve created. But no. That genius moment was all Amy. She remembered the whole saga from last year when Kiki V-T had her cruciate ligament surgery, and I nearly herniated a disc trying to lift her 85-pound diva-dog self into the car for every vet follow-up. Amy, clearly a font of excellent ideas, mentions the ramp and next thing I know we are putting everything we’ve got into shoving two hundred and fifty poundsof dead Doug weight up that freaking ramp like we’re about to film an infomercial for DIY corpse transport.
And she was right.
It worked like a charm.
The rest of the plan is simple—if you squint at it and don’t think too hard. Doug’s truck is somewhere in the neighborhood. His keys were still in his pants pocket. The idea is to find the truck, butt the back of my SUV to the truck bed, and slide Doug from one to the other like a grotesque human conveyor belt. Then drive the truck somewhere remote and push it off a cliff. Voilà. Problem solved. No body, no crime. Just a very suspicious GPS history and the kind of lifelong trauma that settles deep in your bones.
It takes ten minutes of block-circling before we finally spot Doug’s big, ugly banana-mobile parked haphazardly beneath a leaning palm tree. It’s oddly conspicuous for a man who’s made a career out of stealing from vulnerable women. You’d think he’d drive something less visible. Not Doug. He’s out committing fraud and attempting B & Es in the vehicular equivalent of a neon highlighter.
The sun is threatening to rise, painting the edges of the sky with that awkward, guilty pre-dawn light. We’re cutting it uncomfortably close; this is not ideal corpse-hiding conditions.
“Okay, let’s do this,” I mutter, stepping out and praying the neighbors are deep in their red wine infused Ambien comas.
I press the button on the fob and hear the satisfying click of the hatch releasing. I walk to the back, grab the handle, and open the truck bed fully, ready to complete the transfer and move on with the rest of our crime-filled morning.
And freeze.
Because there, laid out neatly like some kind of macabre presentation, is another body.
For a split second, my brain refuses to process it. I think I might be hallucinating from adrenaline and exhaustion. The smell hits first—plastic with something sharp like rotted meat doused with bleach.
I blink once.
Twice.
And the shape registers. Heavy plastic. Zip ties. No head. Just... torso. Wrapped tighter than Doug, and honestly, with a lot more care and craftsmanship, leaking dark gelatinous fluids all over the bed of Doug’s truck.
Amy steps up behind me and lets out a shriek so sharp, a bird somewhere in the trees echoes back in protest.
“THAT’S NOT DOUG,” she whisper-shouts, eyes wide and panicked.
“Nope,” I croak, my voice about four octaves higher than usual.
“BECAUSE WE HAVE DOUG.”
“Yep.”
“THAT’S—THAT’S A WHOLE OTHER DEAD PERSON.” Her face is an unnatural shade of… something not normal.
“Mmm-hmm.” I nod in agreement.
We both stare in silent, stunned horror. It’s not every day you see a dead body wrapped in plastic. At least if I don’t count today.
My hands start tingling and my mouth goes dry.
Amy slaps my arm hard enough to jolt me. “This is bad! Doug killed someone before you killed him! That’s like—a double homicide or something!”
