Page 63 of We Already Dug the Grave

“Yep.” Bunny snapped her gum. “This guy was a regular. Practically part of the furniture.” She cocked back her leg and kicked him hard in the ribs. “Piece-of-shit child molester.”

Her signature heels had been traded for the spare rubber boots Ruth kept in the back of her truck.

“Frances?” Hattie-May’s gaze narrowed on my sister, who stood next to me. Frances’s lips were drawn and her eyes strangely serene as she stared down at the body.

Was she traumatized? Had I swung that shovel and broken my sister?

“You okay over there, dearie?” Hattie-May asked.

“Huh?” Frances said. “Yeah. I’m fine. Glad he’s dead. That’s all.”

The image of Mr. Fortenberry’s hands around Frances’s throat flashed through my mind. Desperation and panic on each of their faces. Her fingers curling at her side, stretching out in our secret SOS as the light in her eyes dimmed.

I bumped my shoulder against hers, reminding her I was there and that she’d always have me.

Hattie-May rubbed her chin. “You said you hit him with a shovel?”

“Yes ma’am,” I said. “I snapped his picture, and he freaked out. Started choking Frances. I threw the camera, and when he went for it—I smacked him… I don’t remember what happened next.”

“We’ll need the shovel.” Hattie-May tapped her chin with her index finger as she spoke. She made the same gesture when dictating our weekly shopping list. “And the camera. We can’t leave anything behind out here. And we’ll have to cross our fingers for a good rainstorm.”

“I have the camera.” I pointed to where the shovel lay in the grass, a few feet away. “And the shovel’s over there.”

Ruth began snapping her cart open. “Let’s get to it, then.”

“His car,” Hattie-May said as she carefully knelt next to the body, propping the flashlight against him. “I’m afraid that’s the thing that’s going to be a problem.”

I looked around the circle, from one face to another. That was the problem?

Everyone, even my sister, was so calm.

Meanwhile, I struggled not to disintegrate. How could I feel sick over hurting someone I was glad was dead? Who I’d kill again a million times if it meant saving my sister? How could I hate myself and be proud of what I’d done?

“Milly?” Hattie-May’s forehead wrinkled.

Hearing my name snapped me back into myself. “Yes, ma’am?”

“You and Frances don’t need to watch this—you’ve been through enough.”

“No,” Frances said before I could say okay, that I’d rather be anywhere else. “We’re staying.”

“I don’t think that’s wise, honey,” Hattie-May insisted.

Ruth shrugged, struggling with the buttons of Shane’s shirt. “Let ’em stay if they want, Hattie. This ain’t nothing compared to what they’ve been through already.”

Hattie-May sighed. “I reckon you’re right.”

I stared at the side of my sister’s face. She didn’t take her eyes off Shane as Ruth undressed the corpse, giving up on the buttons and pulling her knife from her belt and slicing the fabric down the middle.

“About the car,” Bunny said as she untied Mr. Fortenberry’s shoes—the kind of sneakers old guys wore when they wanted to look cool. “I know someone.”

“No,” Hattie-May said. “No one else can know about this. Bunny, dearie—”

“Just hear me out, Hattie-May. It’s a good idea,” Bunny interrupted.

Aunt Hattie glanced from Bunny to Ruth, who shrugged. Finally, she nodded. “Okay.”

“I told you this man was at the club often.” Bunny scrunched her face. “Tonight’s dollar dances. It’ll be crowded… It’d be completely normal for him to slip in and slink into the background.”