Page 101 of We Already Dug the Grave

Frances sniffed and wiped her eyes on the back of her hands.

“It’s time,” she said.

Chapter 38

Now

Frances stood in front of me, her eyes wet and cheeks ruddy. Aunt Hattie reached to brush away her tears, but she winced.

I asked, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Frances sniffed. “I made the calls and left the messages, like we planned. I—” She pressed her lips together and swallowed a sob. “I’m fine,” she repeated. “Ruth and Bunny are waiting. It’s time.”

Hattie-May said nothing, but her lips puckered into a frown, concern etching onto her face. “Let me grab the mixture from the greenhouse. Will only take a second.”

I handed her the key and watched as she slipped it into the lock and disappeared inside.

“Sister,” I said. “Are you sure you can do this?”

“Of course I’m sure. It’s my life that depends on his death, remember?”

I ignored her bitchy tone. She’d always had an attitude when she was upset.

“Yes. I know. It’s only, this isn’t going to work if you can’t keep it together. Burt has to believe you’re happy to see him.” I held her hands between us, my gaze searching her face for something that would tell me if this was only nerves or a real problem.

Frances opened her mouth to speak, but Hattie-May appeared through the greenhouse’s doorway. My sister snapped her mouth shut and blinked quickly, sniffing every so often as my aunt tottered over. I dropped her hands.

Hattie-May pressed a cobalt blue vial into my palm. “Come along now, girls,” she said, and led the way toward the path home. “This will all be over by dinner.”

As we trudged back to the house, moving at Hattie-May’s slow, steady pace, I snuck glances at my sister, who was doing her best to hold back tears. She took deep breaths, her face contorting every so often, before going blank, and then the cycle would repeat. This didn’t feel like nerves. This felt bigger.

Who could blame my sister for being emotional about killing the man she’d thought she loved, even if he deserved it? But where were these tears yesterday as we hammered out the plan and had time to take her emotional state into consideration? Because now? Now, we definitely did not have time.

And our plan hinged on Frances.

It was straightforward. This morning, Frances called Burt while he was on his flight home and left voicemail messages explaining how she’d planned on leaving him. She’d ran away to my house to figure things out.

But she’d had a change of heart.

The time away from him cleared her head of any silly ideas. What would she do without her husband?

The message to Burt would detail how, after visiting me in Persimmon Key, Frances realized she was done with her marriage after finding something on her car that the internet said was a tracking device. She pulled it off and dumped it in a trash can, then in a fit of emotion, she decided to go to her aunts in Tennessee for a while to clear her head and lick her wounds. On her way she got overzealous and threw her phone out the window, knowing that Burt could track her through it too.

Then she’d explain how soon after, the radio played their song, cracking her heart wide open. I know you only keep up with my whereabouts, are so strict only because you care so much! When she turned around to go home, karma came calling, and her car broke down. My own fault for ever leaving you, Burty!

The closest business around was a motel. It’s sketchy—come and get me and please hurry! She’d lay it on thick: It was a mistake—all of it. Please come, Burt.

It wasn’t a perfect plan, but all that mattered was that Burt showed up to the motel. Which, last night, a fully confident version of Frances had assured us, he would. “Like all devils, he has one hell of a God complex and can’t resist playing the hero.”

She knew her husband well and said there was no way he wouldn’t take full advantage of having Frances alone in a sketchy motel room.

There would be bottles of water. Tiny bottles of booze. Glasses. (All placed in the space ahead of time by us, since Bunny said it wasn’t exactly the kind of place that came with a minibar.) Frances would get the poison into Burt’s drink one way or another, while Bunny and I waited out of sight nearby in case things went sideways. I’d insisted on this.

Once he was dead, we’d make it look like an overdose. Frances would wipe the voicemail from his phone. And to anyone on the outside looking in, it would appear that Frances was still in Persimmon Key visiting me. Since my roommate was on a trip with her boyfriend, there wasn’t anyone who’d say otherwise.

But if Frances was losing it already, how could she remain cool once Burt showed up? If she answered the hotel door a terrified stammering mess, Burt would know something was wrong.

I kept quiet as we walked from the path and across the backyard. I again took my sister’s hand in mine. Her eyes were bleary and red. She let out a hiccupping sob.