Page 80 of We Already Dug the Grave

“No. We were only—” I glanced to the empty fast-food cups and soda bottles on the floorboards at Frances’s feet and for once in my life, was thankful I was a car slob. “We were only stopping so I could pop a squat and pee. It was an emergency.”

I again looked into the rearview mirror.

“In this storm?” Frances asked.

I shrugged. “When you gotta go, you gotta go.”

“That’s stupid,” Frances said.

Tension crackled between us.

“If you have a better idea, I’m all ears,” I snapped.

The rain fell in thick, opaque sheets. Normally, I’d have pulled over and flipped on my hazard lights, and waited for the weather to pass—but no way I was stopping now.

I leaned forward in my seat and squinted. The pulse in my neck felt like a living thing trying to escape, pounding against my skin. My mind sprinted.

“Milly,” Frances said. “If we get pulled over, we have to abandon the plan. If a cop could put us here at the same time an anonymous tip about my husband came through, that wouldn’t be good for me.”

The metallic taste of blood hit my tongue, and I realized I was biting my lip.

“Milly, you understand that, right? If Burt finds out what we’re trying to do…”

I nodded. “He won’t find out.”

I eased on the gas, speeding up, doing my best to follow the white line that marked the side of the road. The cop followed, still on my tail. Still no siren. Still no lights.

The asshole was screwing with us, and I hated him for it. A bored cop from a Podunk town held my sister’s fate in his good-old-boy hands.

We drove in silence, except for heavy breaths and the pelting of raindrops. After what felt like forever, the downpour eased. A flash of blue light shone through the cab of my car, and my stomach clenched, but before I could even think to give my signal and pull to the side of the road, the cop car accelerated around us and shot off into the night.

Another minute passed before I could speak. “That was close.”

“Yeah, too close,” Frances agreed. “Like an omen.” She let out a heaving breath. “Made me think of another reason we should call it off. Figure something else out.”

I knew what she meant by something else.

“Look,” I said. “I’m rattled too. But this changes nothing. The plan will work.”

“No. You’re not understanding me. You said once the story is splashed everywhere the police will have to take it seriously. The thing is, Milly—the big fucking thing—is that I’m an Anderson too. Even if everything goes according to plan—if the story takes off and the police investigate—there’s no way I’m getting out of this unscathed. Burt’s going to throw me under the bus. His family will close ranks and—”

“Frances,” I interrupted. “I don’t care what his last name is. He doesn’t win, okay?”

“I don’t think you fully grasp who he—”

“Look. You keep saying that, but I know exactly who he is. Maybe I didn’t go to a fancy school, but I know a rich-boy asshole when I see one. This one grew up and happens to enjoy hurting people. Fuck him and the family that created him.”

“Easy for you to say. You have nothing to lose.”

“That’s not true. I could lose you,” I said. “And I’ve thought about this. It seems like Burt’s worked hard to keep your, uh, colorful family history out of the spotlight. I’m your sister. I know where we come from. Even I couldn’t find anything online to suggest you are anything but a picture-perfect Southern WASPy wife.”

“So?”

“So if he tries to drag you into this, we blow that image up. You’re the poor girl from rural Tennessee who was pulled into the dark web of a wealthy family, forced to lead a double life. Reporters will love you.” I said all of this as if I had any clue what I was talking about. The only thing I knew for certain was that I meant it when I said Burt didn’t get to win. I nodded to the phone clutched in her hand. “Make the call. Media first.”

As my sister entered the number for the news tip line, I mentally cycled through every hole in our plan. I knew it wasn’t perfect. What if the cop wrote down my license plate number? What if, when the story broke, he remembered seeing our car and ran my plate? I swallowed these fears, not because they weren’t warranted, but because I didn’t know what else to do.

Frances spoke into the phone. “There’s something you don’t want to miss—” she began, and gave the information. Just past the Warren Creek Bridge, the north side. She said she was calling the police, so if they wanted to scoop the story, they’d better hurry—she didn’t trust the police not to get rid of the evidence. She hung up.