Page 52 of We Already Dug the Grave

“I swear to God, Frances, if you think taking a picture of us is going to force me to do something I’m not ready to do, it’s not.” Mr. Fortenberry’s voice was sharp with a panicked edge. I could hear how hard he was working not to yell. “I thought you knew better. I thought you were mature enough to understand. Hell, I thought you loved me.”

Even in the dim light, my sister wore her hurt plainly. Her brows drew together. Her mouth pinched, bottom lip poked out. She made a hiccupping sound.

It broke me.

“Leave her alone,” I demanded. “I mean it.”

Frances spun to me, tugging her fine hair with both hands. “Milly, dammit, what are you even doing here?” Her voice was desperate.

I held up the camera, staring down Mr. Fortenberry. His eyes darted to it.

His face flushed red. I imagined his entire life as he knew it flashing before his eyes. He thought he’d picked a safe girl, one nobody would care about. He’d been so wrong.

“Milly,” he said sternly. “Give me the camera. I know this looks bad, but the thing is, it’s all a misunderstanding. We—”

“There’s no misunderstanding. You touch my sister again and I’ll ruin you. I’ll show these pictures to everyone.”

“Ruin me?” He inhaled a deep breath. “Jesus,” he whispered. “Look. There’s no need to be so dramatic. You’re a senior. Give me that camera, and I’ll write whatever letter you need for whatever college. I can help, I have connections. I could make it so you graduate with honors.” He sounded pathetic.

He is pathetic.

“I’m salutatorian, you piece of shit.”

I turned to my sister. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. Now.” I reached out, gesturing for her to come to me, but she stayed put, a doe caught in headlights.

“Shane.” She looked up at Mr. Fortenberry, touched the side of his face in a way that made my stomach roll. “It’s okay. Milly doesn’t understand, that’s all. She will, though.” Her tone shifted. “Milly, I know you will. Please. I love him. He loves me. Please don’t do this.”

Mr. Fortenberry flinched away from Frances. He peered down at her as if she were disgusting. “Don’t touch me.” Then to me, “I can’t help it if a student has a crush on me. It happens sometimes. It doesn’t mean any lines were crossed. She lured me out here, she made a move. This is all a setup.”

My mouth dropped open. That place inside screaming, bad man, bad man.

“Come on, Frances,” I said, urgency creeping in. “I mean it. Let’s—”

“Give me that, you little bitch!” Mr. Fortenberry yelled, and swiped for the camera, but I moved it out of the way.

Frances grabbed his arm. “Shane, no—”

He grabbed a handful of my sister’s hair, jerking her against him. Her mouth snapped closed in a whimper.

“Give me the camera,” Mr. Fortenberry demanded. “I won’t ask again.”

When I didn’t move, he snorted. “What is it you think you’re going to do, exactly? You can’t ruin me. I know who you are. I know what your mama did and what your aunts get up to in that shack.”

I looked from Mr. Fortenberry, with his flared nostrils and wild eyes, to my sister, whose mouth was drawn and brow furrowed. Afraid.

Mr. Fortenberry shook Frances. “Give it here, or I swear I’ll break her neck. Nobody will even miss her.”

Frances’s hands flew to her scalp and a high-pitched whine escaped her lips. One of his hands moved to her neck, his fingers squeezing her windpipe.

My heart pounded.

If he got the camera, then he won. Without proof, no one would believe us.

Frances gasped an awful gurgling sound. She grasped at Mr. Fortenberry’s grip, her fingers working and failing to unwind his.

“You give me that goddamn camera.”

Death. Death in my leaves.