Page 30 of We Already Dug the Grave

There was no gate. No intercom with a button for me to press and beg to be let inside. In Moss Grove, why would there be? Out here, there’s no one for rich people to hide away from.

The long driveway looped through a canopy of oak trees before opening up to a circular drive in front of a white brick farmhouse with a sprawling porch. In the glowing porchlight, I took in the oversized ferns hanging in evenly spaced rows, while flowers bloomed in ornate planters.

Even at night, it was easy to tell my sister’s home was magazine ready. A part of me had hoped that wouldn’t be the case. That maybe in person, I’d see wear and tear. Hidden patches of moss growing in the crevices or weeds sprouting between the blooms. Something to indicate that maybe her life wasn’t quite so perfect without me in it. Should’ve known better.

I shifted to park and cut my engine.

I walked up the front steps onto the porch, my shoulders held straight. The call of crickets serenaded me as I stood in front of the door, wiping my damp palms on my shorts.

Now or never.

I rang the bell.

On the other side of the front door, over the bell’s melodic chime, something scraped across the floor. There was a thump followed by the sound of footsteps. No one answered.

The urge to run bubbled up, followed by a whisper of insecurities. You’re not good enough. Look at her nice house. She doesn’t need you. She cut you from her life like the cancer you are. You always bring destruction. Always ruin everything…

I clenched my jaw, ignoring the poisonous thoughts. My sister did need me. She needed me more than ever.

I knocked, followed by one final ring.

The door swung open to Mama’s ghost.

Only Mama wasn’t dead, and I’d never believed in spirits.

Jesus. I blinked. Through the years, I’d spent hours memorizing my sister’s face, but the photos didn’t do her justice.

Here she was, in the flesh, with her hair twisted into a topknot and face scrubbed clean, her lips unlined and her eyelashes blond and fluttery. She looked exactly like Mama from my memories.

“Milly.” Frances’s eyes widened, and the smile on her face suddenly appeared as awkward as mine felt. She glanced over her shoulder before stepping outside and pulling the door closed behind her. Her voice was tight. “What a surprise. Um.” She looked me over from head to toe. “What are you doing here?”

My brow furrowed, taking in every detail of her. I hadn’t noticed immediately, but scarlet droplets flecked her forehead like red freckles, almost hidden by her hairline.

“You’re bleeding,” I blurted, and without thinking, reached toward her.

Frances recoiled. She wiped her forehead with the sleeve of her Auburn University sweatshirt. “What?” She rolled her eyes. “No, that’s paint. Why on earth would you think… You know what? Never mind. Answer my question, please. What are you doing here?”

My hand dropped to my side. “What am I doing here?” I repeated like an idiot. Jesus. I shouldn’t be nervous. I knew that. This was my sister. Yet my heart pounded.

Once upon a time, we were girls who would’ve thrown their arms around each other. I could describe how the top of her head smelled when she was six, or imitate the soft snoring that had drifted up to my bunk our entire childhood. I knew she hated fish but loved shrimp, and though she was a math genius, she hadn’t memorized her multiplication tables until high school but got away with it because she could add numbers lightning fast. Yet this version of my sister, with her accentless way of speaking and perfect posture, was a stranger.

She’s still my Frances. Strip all of this away, and she’s my baby bird. Nothing can change that. “I’m here because...” I paused, inhaled a breath. “I’m here because I’m worried about you.”

“Worried?” The corners of her mouth twitched, and she shifted her weight from one slippered foot to the other. “You are worried about me? I really wish you’d called first. Now isn’t a good time. A terrible time, actually.” She again glanced over her shoulder, at the front door.

“You blocked my number.”

“Oh, right.” She pressed her lips together. “Well. It’s not like you gave me a choice, sister.” Her words were even and emotionless, and somehow this made them sting even more. “You can’t do that. You can’t just call someone over and over.”

Heavy footsteps clomped inside the house, and Frances ushered us farther away from the door.

“Is that Burt?” I asked.

I’d never liked Burt. Scrolling through his photos, I’d understood exactly who he was—the kind of man who’d never been forced to do without a day in his life.

Maybe it wasn’t fair to make such a judgment based on a douchey haircut, last name, and shoes that cost more than six months of my rent, but that didn’t mean my assessment was wrong.

But that sprinkle of blood on her hairline—because I didn’t for a minute believe it was paint—and the twitchy look on her face as she shooed me farther from the door, a look I’d seen more than a few times on Mama’s face…