Page 26 of We Already Dug the Grave

A scandal could—no, would—ruin everything. Even if it was unequivocally not her fault.

I peeked back through the window. Mr. Fortenberry cupped Frances’s cheek, their foreheads pressed together. She looked so young.

She was so young.

Bile burned the back of my throat. I turned and sprinted.

I rounded the corner, screeching to a stop to bend over a trash can. When there was nothing left in my stomach, I spit and wiped my mouth, then sucked in deep breaths, trying to stave off the impending panic attack. Emotions welled until the physical ache was almost too much. It felt like that place inside of me—the internal door, the pit—trying to rattle open and pour out. I sucked in another shaky breath and leaned against the wall, determined not to cry. Not to lose authority over myself. Control control control.

I had to think.

If we told, I knew exactly how things would go.

My own mama had tried to leave her abuser, and there was no help to be found. When she’d taken matters into her own hands, they had locked her away.

Because society doesn’t care about women.

Especially not teen girls.

Chapter 9

Now

My car never felt more claustrophobic as I struggled to breathe, parked on the roadside and tapping open my phone’s web browser. The remainder of my shift had passed in a blur of panic, of second-guessing my sanity, of my intuition pinging with some unnamed horror, until finally Larry, with a swat of his towel against the countertop, ordered me to go home and get it together.

Usually this would piss me off. Leaving early was for people with savings accounts, but what I was dealing with was more important than money.

I didn’t even make it around the corner before I pulled over, desperate to know if my hunch was right.

My search from earlier—Blake Willis—pulled up and I clicked on the first story, a recent news article updated since my last search, the night I read Frances’s leaves.

University of South Alabama softball player Andrea Conway, who was reported missing earlier this month, has been confirmed dead. Her body was discovered in the Northern Alabama hamlet of Moss Grove. Sources say she was traveling with boyfriend Blake Willis, who is still missing and is named as a person of interest. Anyone with news of Blake Willis’s whereabouts is encouraged to…

Nothing new here.

My hunch felt impossible—another grasp at connection…yet those eyes. So much time had passed since I’d last seen them. And even then, I’d not paid much attention. Only remembering because they were so blue and so bright. Lashes so thick on a little kid.

I almost wished I was wrong, and a big part of me thought I probably was.

I clicked back to the search results and scrolled through the links, mind swimming. It’s probably nothing. Just panic connecting the dots. Not memory or logic. No way. No freaking way.

Most links were the same news story regurgitated—Blake’s picture, his name, USA student, boyfriend, possible person of interest. I scanned each one, feeling like maybe I was indeed losing it.

I clicked an older article. My heart sank.

The report still referred to Andrea and Blake as missing, with no mention of Andrea’s body or of Blake being a suspect. The students’ parents made statements, begging for information.

Blake’s father wasn’t mentioned, but there was a photo of his mother standing behind a press conference podium, hands pleading. There was a stutter in my chest, because I’d seen this woman before.

Like her son, she was familiar, though less changed than Blake since I’d last seen them both ten years ago, when she’d attend high school football games with her husband. No, no, no, no.

The photo was captioned with a name. Allison Willis Fortenberry.

The wife of Shane Fortenberry. My English teacher.

Blake Willis was Mr. Fortenberry’s stepson. That was why he looked familiar. He’d been at plenty of school events, plenty of ball games, back in Puddle Creek, following his stepdad around. Talking to the older kids. His face had changed so much in ten years, but those bright eyes still shone like beacons, same as they had when Puddle Creek High girls fussed over him to win favor with his beloved stepdad.

I spiraled, hands trembling.