Page 86 of We Already Dug the Grave

“Get with the times, dearie,” Hattie-May piped up. “We don’t do that anymore.”

“Oh?”

“We got us an electric kettle.” She pointed to where the appliance sat on the counter. Ruth flipped the switch at its base, and it gurgled to life. “Best thing ever. Cuts down on appointment times.”

“Speaking of—how is business?” Frances asked. She ran her index finger over the white saucer.

“I’m sure you saw the store burned down,” Aunt Ruth said, plunking a ceramic container of tea onto the table.

“Yeah. I hated to see that,” Frances said. “What happened?”

“Lightning hit a utility pole. Happened last year.” Ruth gave a little shrug. “I miss visiting with the old folks. Otherwise, things have been about the same.”

“Still lots of clients?” I asked.

“Mmm. Yeah. Ebbs and flows, like everything else.”

“She’s being modest,” Bunny said, shooting Aunt Ruth a sly look. “Ruth’s been doing a lot of wild game processing—she’s had to expand her shop.”

I thought of Shane. Of the whirring bone grinder. My shiver laced my spine.

“And your Aunt Hattie-May does holiday orders for baked goods.” Bunny patted Aunt Hattie-May’s hand. “People scramble to buy from her—feuds have broken out in the Puddle Creek Rants and Raves group on Facebook. Whole families torn apart.”

“Not as dramatic as all that,” Hattie-May said, the smallest smile tugging at her mouth.

“That’s great,” I said, meaning it.

“What about the greenhouse?” my sister asked.

“Oh it’s still out there—though a bit neglected. I grow a few things here and there,” Aunt Hattie said. “Not nearly as much as I used to.”

Ruth sat the kettle on the table, then held out the tea scooper. “Milly, why don’t you do the honors?”

“Okay.” The smell of Ruth’s favorite blend of tea, earthy and sweet, was like a time machine as I scooped it into the cup.

Frances closed her eyes. I hoped what the Sight showed us would bring peace. That when I opened the door, a feeling of security would float from that place inside, whispering assurance that we’d defended my sister’s fate. That her leaves would show a plan put into motion, one that brought safety. That we could put to bed all the talk of killing, once and for all.

I poured water over the tea leaves.

Aunt Ruth leaned forward, lips parted in anticipation, and Bunny and Hattie-May hushed their whispering. The three women watched as I grabbed Frances’s hands. Their faces wore the kind of reverence churchgoers reserved for Sundays, and I couldn’t blame them—being back in this kitchen, with these cups and this tea, surrounded by these women—it felt spiritual.

“Focus,” I instructed my sister, and I did the same.

Show that my plan worked. That Burt is no longer a threat—or at least a threat contained. That he’ll die years from now locked away in a cell.

A gentle pressure hummed through me, and I beckoned it to build. God. I’d missed it. Reading my own leaves and reading Frances from far away, I’d clawed and scraped and begged the Sight. Then, in a hurry in my Persimmon Key apartment, the door had thrown open, the Sight slamming into me.

Neither time had felt like this. It couldn’t feel like this. Nothing could. Being next to Ruth and Hattie-May, clasping my sister’s hands as that place inside me stirred as if giving approval: In that moment I was my true self. A Robbins woman.

Power built until it thrummed through me as I beckoned the Sight to open, open, open. This power, for a few seconds, was uniquely mine. Power in a world that said I didn’t deserve any.

I thought of the decade of seeing nothing but sister in my teacup. Of feeling linked to Frances, despite our distance.

Our fates were always tangled. Tethered together. Tethered to this place.

The Sight pulsed through me like a second heartbeat.

It didn’t matter why I was called back to Tennessee, to Puddle Creek, to this table. Didn’t matter if it was to plan a murder or move a body. This was where I needed to be, right now, with these women.