Chapter 43
Now
I should’ve listened. I should’ve done it without thinking. Just shoved it in.
God, I hated the doubt. The fear. The way my heart pounded in my ears. The cold sweat breaking across temple, my upper lip, my spine. The way I paused, reasoning over each and every possible outcome. I didn’t want to lose my sister. I didn’t want to go to prison. I didn’t want to die.
This man deserved a knife across his throat.
Hattie-May was curled in the dirt, possibly dying. Mama’s arm was broken, and she could be sent back to prison. My sister had been a prisoner in her own life.
All because of him.
I’d been wrong, yesterday, when I’d been the one person arguing against killing Burt. He needed to die. Now. Surrounded by people who hated him.
Anything else was too good.
My palms were sweaty around the knife’s hilt, and I sucked in a breath, psyching myself up to do what needed to be done.
His brows pushed together, and I swear to God there was a twinkle in his eye.
Burt didn’t think for a moment I’d do it, and that pissed me off even more. Timid little bitch? Me? Bitch, okay. Sure. But timid? No sir.
I gripped the knife harder, pressing against his fleshy throat, and tried to remember the power I’d felt standing over Shane, covered in blood. To pull that memory around me like a shroud.
I’d feel that power again… Something in me knew I would. Something in me wanted it.
Instead, angry, embarrassing tears sprung up. Why couldn’t I simply pop his throat like a pimple and save us all?
“Uh-oh,” Burt said. “Look out! She might break skin.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he spoke. It was so close I could spear it like an olive on a toothpick. “Any moment now, Milly. There’s an expiration date on this offer.”
All I had to do was move my hand.
Do it. Just fucking do it.
Burt was bad. More than bad: He was evil. He’d killed and abused and who knows what else.
He was also wrong. I’d killed Shane. Not Frances. “Do it, Milly, please,” Frances called out, desperation seeping from her tone. “Kill him.”
“Listen to your sister. This is what she wants more than anything,” he said. Then quieter, where only I could hear him. “That’s been her plan all along, you know?”
“What?” I croaked.
“It’s why she chose those two kids as our last victims, even though it’s against our rules to pick someone connected to our real life.”
My eyes widened and Burt hummed.
“Oh, you didn’t know? Your baby bird has claws. She’s a killer, Milly. She wouldn’t hesitate in your shoes.”
“No,” I said, the knife faltering just so. “You’re lying.”
“It’s true. I thought when she picked those two kids it was to heal some sort of, I don’t know, childhood trauma or some other psychobabble bullshit.
But when she wanted to bury the girl in such an obvious place, I knew she had a different plan.
I knew someone would be in her crosshairs.
I didn’t realize she hoped it would be me, not until she ran to you with a sob story. ”
“What?” The word escaped before I could stop it.
“It’s true,” Burt said, eyes never leaving mine. “I even found the phony journals she planted in case there was an investigation.”
“No. You’re lying.” I shook my head. “Shut up.”
He was trying to get in my head. Frances wasn’t a killer. I was.
I was a killer who couldn’t remember killing. It was blurred from my mind, blacked out. There was right before. The heft of the shovel in my hands. The ache in my shoulders as I swung. There was after, when I came to, Frances shaking me co consciousness.
I should be able to do this again. I should protect my family.
I should.
“I knew she was bored, but I had no idea she wanted to kill me.” There was joy in his voice. Pride lacing his words.
This is part of the game, I repeated in my head. He’s lying. Seeing if he can turn me against her.
“The thing is,” he continued. “She couldn’t do it herself, because, well, they always suspect the spouse when murder’s involved, don’t they?
Good thing she has a big, strong killer sister to avenge her.
” His gaze narrowed. “I bet she knew exactly what to say, what wound to press to make you want to protect her.”
“Shut up,” I repeated, this time louder.
“Better do it. Be that big sister she wants you to be. Kill her evil husband like she planned. Tell me. How did she convince you? Did she cry?”
I closed my eyes, my hand trembling as I pressed the knife harder.
“She did, didn’t she? God, she’s good.” He paused, then whispered, “Now ask yourself this: Have you ever seen her cry before?”
“Stop lying.” My voice quavered.
“If I’m lying,” he breathed. “How did I know to show up here?”
My eyes popped open at the same moment Burt’s meaty fist shot out and knocked the knife from my hand. “Time’s up,” he said and grabbed my hair, yanking my face close to his mouth. “I knew you didn’t have it in you.”
My stomach sank. I was a coward. If he hurt anyone now, it would be my fault.
“You’re not like her.” Burt’s hot breath was moist in my ear. “She wouldn’t have hesitated. Not even a moment.” I could hear the smile in his voice.
I tried to twist away, but the tiny hairs on the nape of my neck tore. His grip tightened, sending stars dancing across my vision.
There was scuffling somewhere near. Burt looked up and said, “I love you, sweets. But if you come closer to that knife, I’ll break her neck while you watch. Then where will that leave you, hm?”
Burt again brought his lips close to my ear. “Where were we? Oh. That’s right…the truth about your sister.” He breathed deep, and goose bumps broke across my forearms. “Do you know when she told me your little secret?”
“Yes,” I said, hoping my answer would catch him by surprise.
“What’s he saying? Milly? What’s he telling you?” Frances called.
Burt tightened his grip. “She told me when I was inside her. How does that make you feel? Knowing that when she described to me how you brought down the shovel on your teacher’s head and how watching the light drain from his eyes made her feel more alive than she’d ever felt, I was fucking her with her hands around my throat. ”
This couldn’t be true. Frances had confessed to him in a moment of desperation. It came from loneliness and a need for connection. Not in some, what? Twisted dirty talk? The idea made me sick.
“You don’t have to believe me.” Burt shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me either way. Just thought you might want to know who you’re ‘protecting.’”
Frances called out once more, her voice calm. “He’s a liar, Milly. Whatever he’s saying to you, it’s not true. This is what he does.”
Hattie-May groaned again, this time softer, and I could hear Ruth and Bunny exchanging concerned words over their charges.
I pulled away, but Burt yanked my hair. “You only go where I let you,” he snarled.
“And you’ll listen until I say we’re done.
” He grabbed my chin and twisted my face toward Frances.
“Look at her. You don’t deserve her, you know that?
Your sister told me how you were going to ruin everything by telling on yourself to that boy. ”
I opened my mouth to respond, but he twisted his fist, pulling my hair. A whimper escaped my lips.
“Maybe I should let her tell you that story. She sure enjoyed telling me. How she was repaying you by getting rid of the boy who’d have turned you and your entire family in.”
“He’s a liar, Milly! Burt, please. Burt, stop,” Frances yelled.
“What?” The word grated out of me. I tried to remain calm, to think of a way out, but it was as if my body was turning loose and liquid. Like I might melt away.
Hearing him talk about that night…the worst night.
“Your precious boyfriend. Cade? Caleb?”
“Casey,” I whispered.
“Yeah. She killed Casey for you, and what did you do? You broke your promise and fucking left her. Didn’t even say goodbye.”
“No.” My knees buckled, and it was like the air had been sucked from my lungs. I sagged against this man I hated. “That’s not true.”
Burt laughed. He’d gotten his reaction. “She was proud of how she did it, a little poison on his lips while he slept.” He twisted us around to where I could see Aunt Hattie still and pale on the ground, yards away, Ruth trying to staunch a wound on the back of her head, her eyes panicking.
Unable to leave her side as she called to Bunny, beckoning her over.
“She was following in her great-aunt’s footsteps.
The family business, she said. When she told me that, I knew she was special. That we’d have so much fun together.”
No. Frances would never hurt me this way.
Burt was still talking, but his words grew muffled in my head, and I thought of Casey. Of the helmet. Of the dirt Frances saw beneath Burt’s nails.
Of this man—this liar—in the forest, digging up Casey’s remains.
Desecrating him.
“What did you do with him?” I demanded. “Where the fuck did you take him? Where is he? Tell me what you did with Casey.” Emotions—guilt, shame, anger—surged.
One hand was on Burt’s, trying to loosen his grip.
The other slid into my pocket and wrapped around the bone.
Smooth and small and sharp, but far from deadly.
“Tell me where he is. Where did you put him? He deserves…” Guilt wouldn’t let me finish the sentence, because curse or no curse, Casey had always deserved more than I’d given him.
Burt shook his head. “What are you talking about? What I did with that boy?” He grimaced.
“He’s lying,” Frances repeated once again, her voice losing its conviction.
“Okay. This isn’t fun anymore.” Burt relaxed his grip, and without thinking, I turned and pushed against him. He stepped back, his foot landing on Sarge’s tail.
The cat hissed and latched on to Burt’s calf.
“What the—” Burt yelped, his hand falling away from me.
There was no hesitation. No thought at all as I jerked the piece of bone from my pocket—the tiny piece of home that had traveled with me everywhere—and plunged it into Burt’s neck, the way I should have with the knife.
“Fuck!” he roared, eyes flaring. He grabbed for me, but he was too slow, and I spun away.
The bone fell to the ground. It hadn’t been lodged deep enough to stick, but blood leaked from the wound.
“You little bitch. It didn’t have to be bad for you—”
“Burt, no,” Frances shrieked. “It’s okay. It’s my fault. Don’t—”
“Don’t what?” Burt roared, spinning toward Frances. “Say it. Don’t what?”
I froze. If I was going to do anything, the moment was now. But I had no weapon. No plan.
“I said finish your sentence, sweets. Don’t. What?”
Frances’s eyes were pleading. “Don’t kill her.”
“Is she off-limits? If she’s off-limits, you have to say it. Loud. Where everyone can hear.”
“She’s off-limits,” Frances yelled, her face contorting.
“Okay.” Burt sucked in a loud breath and held up his hands, his voice going light. He turned off his rage like turning off a faucet, even as blood dripped down his neck and over his navy coat.
Frances’s brows pinched together.
Burt stepped back. “Okay, fine. Unlike you, sweet monster, I follow the rules.” He touched the wound on his neck, and then looked at his wet, red fingers. “However, I’m about sick of all of”—he gestured over the porch—“whatever the hell this is.”
In a single motion, Burt pulled a shiny black gun from his back waistband beneath his navy blazer and held it in the air.
I’d been right when I’d thought he was playing with us. He’d had a weapon this entire time. He could’ve grabbed my sister, pulled the gun, and left.
Instead he’d had his game.
A game that might’ve cost the life of someone I loved dearly. My eyes went to Aunt Hattie, before my gaze locked with Ruth’s.
Her eyes narrowed. She gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Ruth, my strong, pissed-off, incredible Aunt Ruth, jumped to her feet and charged, tackling Burt at the stomach. The gun skittered away.
Right toward me.