Page 39 of We Already Dug the Grave

I lowered my voice. “This cop—” I considered how much to tell her. “He’s a detective from Puddle Creek. He said he spoke with you, and…” My voice came out scared. Nervous. Like the girl I’d been ten years ago.

“Hold on a damn minute.” Ruth’s words were always razor sharp but rarely unkind. “You’re saying a Puddle Creek cop called you? When?”

“Just now,” I said. “He wasn’t, I don’t know… It was weird. He wanted to ask some questions. Said he talked to you and made it sound like you gave him my number…” All the emotions I’d pushed down came flooding back, and I squeezed my eyes shut as I crumpled my hand in the bedsheets.

“He said he talked to me? That I gave him your number? Shit… You know I don’t talk to cops, and I don’t even have your number, child.” Ruth sucked in a deep breath, and when she spoke, I could tell she was working hard to sound gentle. “Did you tell him anything?”

“No, Aunt Ruth, nothing. I got off the phone with him as quickly as I could. The whole thing just… It freaked me out.”

“I bet it did.” Ruth paused, as if collecting her words. “Listen to me, Milly. I don’t know what’s going on, but no cop talked to me or Aunt Hattie. And as far as I know, there ain’t no investigation, new or otherwise.”

Her screen door squeaked open then slammed shut. I pictured her, phone pressed to her ear, walking laps around the sagging front porch. Maybe a cigarette in her other hand, or maybe a cold drink.

“It was pretty well accepted that Shane Fortenberry ran out on his family. Lots of bad stuff came out after he disappeared. Became crystal clear what kind of man he was.” She blew out a steady stream of air. Cigarette then. Menthol filled my nose like the ache from a phantom limb. “Gossip got so bad his wife left town.”

Frances had said the same thing.

My mind flashed to the photos of Blake. To the phone call at the diner. To the body in Moss Grove. I pressed my mouth closed, teeth clenched to keep anything from spilling out.

Ruth lowered her voice. “No one knows you ran away. Everyone who knew you could tell how miserable you were. You’d talked nonstop about getting away, so when we told everyone you went off on your own, no one batted an eye about it. And Frances’s boarding school was already in the works. No reason for anyone to suspect a thing.” Another drag from her cigarette, a sharp exhale. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t like it. You got the number he called you from?”

Did I? It should’ve been the first thing I checked, but my thoughts felt sluggish. I pulled up the call log.

The number was unfamiliar, but the area code was correct.

I opened my mouth to tell Ruth, but paused. If I gave it to her, she’d go digging. And as helpful as she was, she didn’t have all the information. The call hadn’t been about Shane.

The caller hadn’t even mentioned my old teacher. He only asked about Casey.

I again squeezed my eyes shut. I should’ve thought this through before calling her.

“No,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t sense the lie. “It’s blocked.”

Silence filled the line. Then, “Milly. I don’t know who called you, but I don’t think it was a cop.”

I licked my chapped lips and sat with my aunt’s words, because part of me had feared the same thing.

“Milly? You there?”

“Yes ma’am. Sorry. I just…” The call played in my mind. I’d talked to a lot of cops as a waitress. They had a certain way of speaking, a certain authority and manner, and it wasn’t in the too-perfect cadence of whoever had been on the other end of my call. “I think you’re right.”

“Do you have any idea who it could be? Think hard. Anyone who’d know…anything?”

“No.” I crossed my fingers, hoping, yet again, that she couldn’t sense the lie. And that if she could that she’d let it go. Because if it wasn’t a cop, there was only one person it could be. But he doesn’t know about Casey.

Nobody knows about Casey.

Except someone clearly did.

“Milly?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“I got an idea,” Ruth said. “How about you let me take a look at interpreting your fate? Just hear me out. I know you don’t like being read, but this situation’s concerning. You call out of the blue after ten years and, frankly, you sound like shit. Your leaves might—”

“No,” I interrupted curtly. “Absolutely not. I know you want to help, but you can’t read me.”

I’d revoked her access to my fortune when I left Puddle Creek. It was the first time I’d had secrets I couldn’t risk having spelled out in a teacup.