Page 113 of We Already Dug the Grave

“Okay, Milly.” Burt laughed. “Let’s see what you can do.” He dropped his hold on my sister pushing her away as he stepped toward me, smirking. God, he’s always smirking.

“You going to stab me? Cut my throat? Should I be afraid of you, because you’re a big bad murderer?” Burt looked around. “I’m supposed to believe a timid little bitch like you killed a man to protect my wife? My wife?” Burt shook his head. “Nah. I don’t think so.”

He looked once more at Frances. His lips curling into an oil-slick smile. “That’s why your little plan could never work. Your sister’s gutless. Not like you, sweets.”

Frances stood wide-eyed, watching everything unfold.

My heart pounded. I didn’t know what this was or what Burt was trying to pull. I looked past him, to where Ruth bent over Aunt Hattie, caressing her cheek. And at Mama silently heaving in pain, her arm held close while Bunny tore off her sweatshirt and worked at fashioning a sling.

“You know what?” Burt said.

My gaze snapped back to him.

“Maybe I’m not being fair to our Milly, here.” He walked toward me.

My grip on the knife tightened so much my hand trembled. I can do this. I can kill him. I’ve done it before.

I could feel my panic rise. My brain faltering as my palm sweated around the handle. Before I understood what was happening, Burt struck. He grabbed and squeezed my fisted hand. Pain shot up my arm. “I’ll tell you what. You want to kill me?” He scoffed. “Now’s your chance. Go on. Prove your sister right.”

He tenderly moved my arm, positioning the sharp edge of the knife to the fleshy part of his throat. “Now,” he said, leaning into the blade. “All you have to do is push. There’s an artery. A windpipe. All kinds of nasty stuff that keeps me upright. If you’re the killer your sister claims you are, this should be easy for you.” He released my hand. “Go ahead. Be the hero.”

I glared at him, then pressed the knife hard against his neck as that place behind the internal door whispered, do it now now, now.

Chapter 43

Now

I should’ve listened. I should’ve done it without thinking. Just shoved it in.

God, I hated the doubt. The fear. The way my heart pounded in my ears. The cold sweat breaking across temple, my upper lip, my spine. The way I paused, reasoning over each and every possible outcome. I didn’t want to lose my sister. I didn’t want to go to prison. I didn’t want to die.

This man deserved a knife across his throat.

Hattie-May was curled in the dirt, possibly dying. Mama’s arm was broken, and she could be sent back to prison. My sister had been a prisoner in her own life.

All because of him.

I’d been wrong, yesterday, when I’d been the one person arguing against killing Burt. He needed to die. Now. Surrounded by people who hated him.

Anything else was too good.

My palms were sweaty around the knife’s hilt, and I sucked in a breath, psyching myself up to do what needed to be done.

His brows pushed together, and I swear to God there was a twinkle in his eye.

Burt didn’t think for a moment I’d do it, and that pissed me off even more. Timid little bitch? Me? Bitch, okay. Sure. But timid? No sir.

I gripped the knife harder, pressing against his fleshy throat, and tried to remember the power I’d felt standing over Shane, covered in blood. To pull that memory around me like a shroud.

I’d feel that power again… Something in me knew I would. Something in me wanted it.

Instead, angry, embarrassing tears sprung up. Why couldn’t I simply pop his throat like a pimple and save us all?

“Uh-oh,” Burt said. “Look out! She might break skin.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he spoke. It was so close I could spear it like an olive on a toothpick. “Any moment now, Milly. There’s an expiration date on this offer.”

All I had to do was move my hand.

Do it. Just fucking do it.