Page 112 of We Already Dug the Grave

As the tail of Ruth’s shirt rode up. The sheath of a hunting knife fixed to the back of her belt. Of course.

Ruth always had a knife.

I tried to catch Bunny’s eye, but she was still whispering to Ruth, trying to calm her down.

We could rush him. With the knife we stand a chance.

There were four of us, me and Ruth and Bunny and Mama.

The leaves said my sister could die, and with the stakes that high, there was no room for mistake.

I breathed deep, forcing myself to focus. To think. Could we pull it off? Mama seemed desperate and frail. She was also a stranger, and I had no idea what to expect from her. Bunny was tough as nails, but also skinny as a twig. Ruth was so consumed with Hattie-May’s injuries I wasn’t sure she even saw the rest of us anymore.

Meanwhile, Burt’s slender fingers curled around my sister’s throat.

Burt loves a game, Frances had warned.

The ghost of a smile lingered on his face. He’s drawing things out, I realized. The bastard’s enjoying this.

If this was his game, that meant as chaotic as it seemed, he was prepared.

If I were to act, there’d be no room for error.

I caught eyes with Frances, dipping my chin. My own fingers curling to make the signal in response. To let her know I was going to do something.

Before my fingers even uncurled, Frances screamed.

She screamed, and she didn’t stop.

Her shriek rang out in the yard, echoing through the trees surrounding the Robbins home. Bunny, Mama, and Ruth all leaping in surprise.

Everyone but me.

“What the fuck, sweets!” Burt moved his hand to cover her gaping mouth.

And then he yelped, dropping his hold on my sister. “Damn it.”

Blood dripped over his palm. Frances smiled, crimson smeared over her lips and teeth.

Burt brought his hand across Frances’s cheek with a loud smack, sending her hurtling to the ground. He cocked his arm back to strike her again, and before I could move, a primal scream tore from Mama.

“Don’t you fucking touch her.” I could see it in her before she moved, her stance shifting, her face contorting. I wanted to yell at her, no. Wait. We have to get it exactly right.

But before I could stop her, Mama lunged at Burt, sprinting across the yard. He grabbed her arm in a single motion and twisted it at a sickening angle until it popped like a chicken bone. Mama screamed, her legs going limp as he pushed her away. She stumbled to the ground, her arm hanging wrong. She sucked in gasping breaths, gathering it close. Howling in pain.

“Mama!” Frances cried. Her husband’s blood was smeared over her mouth, taking me again to that evening in the meadow, when both our faces were flecked with scarlet.

Burt grabbed Frances’s long hair and hauled her back to her feet. “Where do you think you’re going?”

There would be no exactly right moment, I realized. It was now or never, just like that night so long ago, when we’d been faced with another bad man. I sprinted toward Aunt Ruth and pulled the knife from her belt right as she rushed toward Hattie-May’s side, dropping down next to her. Bunny darted toward Mama and pulled her head into her lap, soothing as she checked over Mama’s arm.

It was chaos and cries, panting breaths and Burt laughing that horrible chuckling laugh, like a kid who enjoyed pulling wings off butterflies or burning ants with a magnifying glass.

I held the knife in the air. “Everyone, stop. Just. Fucking stop.”

Burt wiped his eyes, glee written across his face. “Oh my God. Really? How cute is this? Big sister has a knife.” He looked at Frances. “Don’t get too excited, sweets. I still don’t think your little plan is going to work. Do you truly she’s capable of—”

“Shut up,” I screamed, waving the hunting knife. My vision tunneled, and I blinked against the yellow spots. “Let her go. Now.”