Page 40 of We Already Dug the Grave

Ruth must’ve known, but to her credit, after her initial surprise she hadn’t pressed. The rules were the closest thing she had to a religion, and she took them seriously.

Aunt Ruth sighed. “Have it your way.” She mumbled, “Hardhead. Always making things ten times worse on yourself.” Looking at my life through her eyes, she wasn’t wrong. “Oh. Shit. My appointment’s here.”

She lowered the phone to greet her client. “How you doing, Mabel?” Then back to me, “I gotta go, but listen. Call me if it happens again, and say nothing to anyone, you understand? I’m going to see what I can find out.” There was the sound of her spitting from the side of the porch. “And, Milly?”

“Ma’am?”

“This is going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. And…and I’m glad…well… It’s so good to hear from you. I’m saving your number. We’ll talk real soon.”

“Yes ma’am,” I said, again smiling into the phone despite the anxiety pumping through my system. “Bye, Aunt Ruth.”

I ended the call and stared blankly at the wall. Ruth was right. I’d known in my gut that whoever called me wasn’t a cop.

Okay. Then who?

But I knew. There was only one person who it could be. The same person who’d called the diner. Blake Willis.

How did he get my number?

Why did he lie about being a cop? About Aunt Ruth? He had to know I’d find out the truth. Unless he wasn’t worried about me finding out and was only calling to fuck with me.

But the biggest question was how he knew about Casey.

I’d lied to Ruth when I told her the number was blocked. It wasn’t.

Almost like he hoped I’d contact him back.

He was going to get his wish, but not until I did a quick search. I opened the call log and copied the number then pasted it into the search engine.

Nothing.

No list of names belonging to the number. Not even a warning saying the number was associated with spam callers. A burner phone, then.

I clutched my cell, typing in a new message.

Who is this?

Immediately, dots bounced across the screen.

Officer Jackson.

No. You’re not. Tell me your name. Tell me what you want.

More dots. Then:

I want you to tell the truth. Every sordid detail.

I stared at the screen. This person was sick. I wanted to scream. To curse. But Carla was in the other room and the apartment walls were thin.

Blake? Are you Blake? Why are you doing this?

He replied.

No. Not Blake. You know who I am.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Tell me why you’re doing this.