Page 56 of We Already Dug the Grave

“I can’t go to Tennessee and risk putting the aunts in danger.”

“But you’ll put me in danger.”

“We’re sisters,” she said. “Besides. You came to me first.”

She had a point, because when she looked at me with fear in her wide eyes, suddenly I was eight and she was five and we were in the back seat of that awful social worker’s car, her bony fingers clasped in my pudgy hand. I was twelve and she was nine, and I was getting detention for punching a girl who made fun of her hair. We were teenagers, staring down at a corpse, his blood splattered on our cheeks, and I was telling her not to worry, that I’d handle it.

That I’d always handle it.

Only I hadn’t. Had I?

Because if I’d handled it—handled everything—she wouldn’t be here now, in this situation.

“Fine,” I said. “Let me get the tea.”

Chapter 21

Then

Standing in that meadow, covered in blood, was the first time I truly understood power.

Euphoric power.

In those precious seconds, propped up by a cocktail of adrenaline and long-simmering rage, I knew with perfect clarity why people would do the unspeakable to achieve this feeling and even worse things to keep it. No one could hurt me. I felt strong.

I felt whole.

Then I opened my eyes to a spinning world and retched on my sneakers.

“Milly? Milly!” Frances grabbed my shoulders, pulling me upright, inches from my face. “Come on, Milly!”

She slapped my cheek, and I blinked rapidly, reality coming into view.

We were still in the woods. In the clearing. I knew that.

The lavender light was fading, darkening the paint that smeared my sister’s face.

No. Not paint.

But I knew that too.

Frances slapped my cheek once more, this time hard.

The night rushed back. Riding in the back of the truck, sneaking through the forest, Mr. Fortenberry’s hands tenderly on my sister’s cheek, then wrapped around her throat. The camera.

The vibration of shovel against skull.

Behind my sister was the bleeding heap that was my English teacher. Had been my English teacher.

“Oh God.” I covered my mouth with my palm, the smell of my vomit mingling with the copper scent of blood as reality drained the euphoria away like pus from a blister. What had I done?

My sister and I stumbled to the ground. I ran my tongue over my sticky lips.

For a long time, we lay in the grass, feet from the man I’d killed, tangled together like when we were little girls and Daddy’s voice tore through our Lundinville home.

“I’m so sorry,” I murmured. “Frances, I’m so sorry.”

“Shh. Hush.” She pushed a sticky strand of hair from my face.