Page 85 of We Already Dug the Grave

As if I weren’t here so I could sneak away and move a corpse.

Bunny winked at me and disappeared back into the house, the door snapping closed.

“I don’t want to lose your sister either. Not to prison nor the grave,” Ruth said the moment we were alone. “But Milly.”

“What?”

“I hope your plan works. I really do. I hope Burt gets sent away and Frances can be free. But if it doesn’t? We do what we have to do. Tonight, we’ll check her leaves—”

“I already did,” I insisted.

“Then you won’t mind us checking them again—to see if anything’s changed,” she said matter-of-factly. “Then we’ll figure out a backup plan. Just in case. Because you’re right about one thing—getting rid of Burt won’t be easy and—ouch! Dammit!”

Aunt Ruth shook her leg, where a tortoiseshell tabby was stuck like Velcro on the calves of my aunt’s Wranglers.

“Y’all have a cat?” I watched as Ruth pulled the feline free. It blinked up at us smugly.

“That mean piece of gristle technically belongs to your sister,” Ruth groused. “Showed up on our porch as a kitten when Frances was home for Christmas her first year at college. You’d think a cat this age would’ve chilled out by now, but I swear Sarge the Second gets more ornery every day.”

“His name is Sarge the Second?” I shook my head. “Why?”

“That evil thing is a she.” Ruth shrugged. “And you’ll have to ask Frances—she named her. But between us, Lucifer would’ve been more fitting. I was surprised she remembered the first Sarge. She was so little when y’all came to live with us, and the first Sarge ran off not long after.” I bent to pet Sarge the Second’s head but yanked my hand away when she tried to bite my fingers.

“I’m waiting for her to die, but she’s too mean for heaven and the devil won’t take her,” Ruth said. I didn’t believe my aunt for a second. She always talked shit about animals, but she was secretly a softie.

The cat gave a gravel-filled reowr and leapt from the side of the porch. We watched her run off into the night. Ruth said, “Let’s get inside. There’s much to do.”

Chapter 32

Now

While I was in Persimmon Key, Frances’s life had continued in Puddle Creek. I’d known this, but seeing the evidence was jarring.

My sister was sent away to boarding school, then received a full ride to Auburn, but she’d come home for holidays and summer breaks. Her years were showcased in mismatched frames on top of the wooden box television that Aunt Hattie had used as a knickknack shelf since before I’d ever called this place home.

They began with blurry-edged pictures of the both of us together, feral girls barefoot and covered in dirt, arms around each other. The photos of my sister were like a timeline of a girl growing into an adult. A snapshot of Frances at junior prom. Portraits of my sister in her cap and gown—both high school and college. Even a photo of Frances in her elegant wedding dress standing alone in front of a stained-glass window. I knew from Frances’s Instagram that they’d not been at her wedding and wondered if she’d had the photo sent to the aunts without Burt knowing.

The photos of me ended when I was seventeen. In the most recent one, I lay on an old quilt in the backyard, wearing cutoff shorts and a yellow bikini top, sticking my tongue out at the camera. It was a regular, random day commemorated for no reason at all. And then… that’s it.

It was like I’d died.

My gaze flickered over each photo before landing on one I’d forgotten about. A lump formed in my throat.

“You okay?” Frances sidled up next to me and followed my gaze.

“Yeah,” I said, unable to look away. The photo was of me in middle school, my arm draped over the shoulders of a boy with rust-colored hair. It was the year before Casey shot up like a weed, when we were still the same height. It was four years before I’d pull him by his ankles to a sandy patch of dirt and leave him there.

“Yeah,” I repeated. “Just strange being back.”

Frances slid her hand into mine and gave it a squeeze, then silently set the picture of me and Casey face down on the shelf.

“Come eat,” Bunny called from the tiny kitchen, setting two plates down for me and Frances at the table. She’d microwaved leftover pot roast and made sandwiches. After we inhaled them, it was time to get down to business.

“I know your sister read you, but I think we should have another look. Just to be sure.” Ruth took a saucer and cup from the shelf and sat them in front of my sister.

Frances looked at me, brows steepled. “Okay. Can’t hurt, I guess.”

“If it’ll give you some peace of mind,” I said with a shrug. Then to Aunt Ruth, “You want me to put the kettle on?”