Page 91 of We Already Dug the Grave

“Couldn’t we make it look like, I don’t know, a drug deal gone bad or something?” Frances asked.

I blinked, and for a second, I was back in the clearing, shovel in hand. Terror and power swirling together inside me.

“No,” I said, not believing what my sister was saying. “That’s dangerous. What if he got the weapon away from you? Guns are traceable, and honestly, do you think you’d be able to go through with stabbing him?”

Frances shrugged. “Let someone pin you down and slap you across the face, then come back and ask me that.”

She had a point.

“Seems to me like poisoning him will be easier to conceal, and like Bunny said, won’t immediately be ruled as a homicide, as long as we, you know, make it look right.”

“That won’t be a problem, honey,” Hattie-May said. She gathered the empty cake saucers and carried them to the sink. “I know just the thing. Have it already bottled, stored. Of course”—she turned on the faucet to rinse the plates—“I could brew up something new. I believe I have some rosary pea in the greenhouse.”

I watch my great-aunt, openmouthed, as she began humming her favorite hymn and squirted detergent into the sink. From death to dishes, just that quickly.

“What if…” Frances ignored Hattie-May, her eyes darting around the room. “What if we did bring him here? I’m sorry Aunt Hattie, but listen real quick. We lure him out here, where no one would ever think to look for him, at least not for a long time. I think that makes the most sense. Then we could…I don’t know…make sure he’s dead. Get rid of the body, just like—”

“Like what?” I asked, surprised at the hint of venom in my voice. “Like last time?”

“Well, yeah,” Frances said. “Then I could ‘come home from my beach trip’ and report my husband missing.”

“No.” Bunny shook her head. “Nuh-uh. When Burt was traced back here—and he absolutely would be—it’d put your aunts under a lot of scrutiny, and we ain’t doing that.”

“But I think—” Frances began, but this time Ruth interrupted.

“Frances, hon. That’s too much.” Ruth’s expression was pained. “Burt’s not gonna get away with everything he’s done, but we gotta do this exactly right.”

My sister fidgeted with her necklace, her eyes going vacant, but she nodded. “Fine. As long as he’s good and dead before we leave.”

“Don’t you worry, baby,” Aunt Hattie-May said, hands going to her ample hips. “He’s not getting out of this alive.”

Chapter 34

Now

The darkness outside had softened with the beginnings of morning by the time we cobbled together our plan. The aunts and Bunny headed to their beds to grab a few hours of sleep, while my sister took a shower.

There’d be no rest for me. Not until everyone was down for the night and I could sneak out and take care of Casey.

In the meantime, I waited in my old bedroom.

It surprised me how unchanged it was. It was a time capsule.

The bunk beds—a twin over full—were still pushed against the far wall. I ran my fingers over their wood, once stained a neutral color now faded to an orangey-brown. Remnants of stickers we’d stuck to the boards a lifetime ago remained, as did the letter M I’d carved near the ladder. The bedding was new.

Our old chest of drawers sat next to the closet. However, the vanity, which was cream with lavender glass knobs, was a new addition, sitting in the spot that had once belonged to a dresser. It was dainty and feminine and out of place. When had it been added? Perhaps a Christmas gift for my sister, while I was spending the holiday sad and alone.

Stop. I chastised myself. I was almost twenty-eight years old, too old for petty feelings toward Frances over something like childhood furniture.

I sat down on the vanity’s delicate stool. This felt a little like snooping, which was silly. Frances hadn’t been back here, to this house, to this room, in years. If there was anything she didn’t want prying eyes to see, she’d have taken it with her when she moved out.

Honestly, it was surprising the aunts had left the room intact. Certainly, they could’ve used the space, yet the bedroom was a shrine to our girlhood. My One Direction poster still hung on the wall next to Frances’s picture of Einstein sticking out his tongue. Even the sketch Aunt Hattie had made of two little girls—a blond and a brunette—playing beneath a willow tree with near-black leaves was still taped to our closet door, the corners of the drawing beginning to curl, the colors faded.

Still. I listened for my sister. The sound of the water told me I had a few minutes.

God, I need a shower too. The spray of scalding-hot water on my skin would feel amazing, but there was no point in getting clean. Not yet.

I looked at the photographs taped to the vanity’s mirror. Frances smiling in a red cap and gown, laughing with classmates. Frances with a group of girls wearing sweats and cat ears, their noses painted black. Frances next to a boy with brooding eyes and a serious mouth.