Page 92 of The Knucklebone Brothers

"We move her," I said, the words comin' out before I'd even fully formed the thought.

"Where?"

Silence. Because there wasn't anywhere. This was the holler. Momma knew every road, every house, every person, every hollow log a body could be stuffed into. She knew this place better than God.

"That's the problem," Knox said, his voice heavy with the truth of it.

"You two always make plans without me?"

We both whipped around. Maverick was leanin' against the big top, a hammer danglin' casually from one hand. He was smilin'. That was worse.

"How long have you been there?" I asked, my voice tight.

"Long enough," he said, his eyes dartin' between me and Knox.

"Fuck," Knox muttered.

"That's ‘bout right," Maverick said, his smile widenin'. "So, we're keepin' secrets now?"

"Mav—"

"No, no. Don't stop on my account," he said, pushin' off and walkin' toward us. "You were doin' so well." He stopped in front of us, his gaze landin' on Knox. "Momma wants to kill my wife?"

Silence.

Maverick's smile was a predator's grin. "That's adorable." Not because he was amused. Because he was furious. I could feel it comin' off him, a cold, dangerous heat. And I knew, right then, that this wasn't gonna be about hidin' anymore. This was gonna be about testin' boundaries. And Momma's were about to get broken.

Maverick's smile didn't drop, it sharpened, turnin' into a thin, predatory line. He took a slow step toward Knox, who instinctively backed up, his boots scuffin' in the damp dirt. Maverick leaned in, gettin' right up in his face, his voice a low, dangerous threat. "So, when's this gonna happen? Momma better not touch a hair on her head."

Knox closed his eyes, his jaw tight, a muscle twitchin' in his cheek. "Fuck," he breathed, the word a small, desperate prayer.

Maverick's head snapped toward me, his eyes a wild, desperate thing, a storm of rage. "Well, speak the fuck up!" he roared, his voice a raw, ragged thing that seemed to tear at the air. "When's this happening?"

Knox flinched, his eyes dartin' between Maverick's furious face and my own cold, silent one. "Now," he choked out, the word a small, defeated thing.

The word hung, a death sentence. Maverick's face contorted, a mask of fury. He lunged, his hand shootin' out and grabbin' a handful of Knox's shirt, yankin' him forward until they were nose to nose. "Where is she?" he growled, his voice low. "Where did Momma take her?"

I didn't wait. I reached into my boot and pulled out the knife I kept there. I flipped it open, the blade a silver flash in the gray light. "Better fuckin' tell us, Knox," I said, my voice low, my eyes locked on his. "I know you don't wanna give your sister up, but we are your blood too."

Knox looked from the knife in my hand to Maverick's furious face, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to steal the last of the fight out of him. "The old killin' shed," he said, his voice a low, defeated thing. "She took her to the old killin' shed."

Maverick shoved him back, Knox stumblin' and almost fallin'. "We'll deal with you later," he snarled, his finger pointin' a sharp, accusatory thing. Knox just stood there, his head down, his shoulders slumped, a look of profound disappointment on his face.

The woods swallowed us whole as we ran, the trees a dense, suffocatin' wall of green and brown. The air grew thick, heavy with the stench of decay and old blood, a smell that got stronger with every step, a smell that was as much a part of this place as the mountains themselves. And then we saw it.

The killin' shed.

It was a small, warped structure tucked against the mountainside, its roof half-collapsed, its boards a sickly, grayish color. Moss and kudzu crawled up its sides, a dark, creepin' thing that seemed to be slowly swallowin' the buildin' whole. The smell hit us first, a thick mixture of old iron, woodsmoke, and animal fat, with an underlyin' scent of damp earth.

We approached slowly, our boots sinkin' into the leaves, our eyes scannin’ over the buildin', over the heavy wooden door that stood slightly ajar, a dark, inviting hole. We pushed it open, the hinges screamin', and the smell intensified. We stepped inside, our boots crunchin' on the dirt floor. The old chains hung from the ceiling beams, swayin' in the breeze like ghostly pendulums. We saw the rusted meat hooks; their sharp points dull and menacing. The old pulley system, its ropes frayed and worn, its wood dark with age.

Then we saw Momma.

She was standin' in the middle of the room. And in front of her, held tight against her chest, was Rory. She looked scared, her eyes wide and wild. Momma was facin' us, her eyes a cold, hard thing, a flicker of annoyance in their depths. She must've heard the door screamin' on its hinges. In her hand, pressed tight against Rory's throat, was a shard of glass, a jagged piece of a broken bottle.

She didn't say anythin'. She didn't even flinch. She just stood there, and then, with a motion that was as quick and as brutal as a snake strike, she sliced the shard of glass across Rory's throat.

Blood gushed out, a hot, red river that flowed down Rory's chest. Her eyes went wide, a look of pure shock on her face, a silent scream trapped in her throat.