Chapter 22
Now
Frances settled herself on the lone barstool as I filled the kettle. A bridal magazine sat on the counter in a stack of mail. My sister’s nose wrinkled as she picked it up and thumbed its pages. “Are congratulations in order?”
“What? No. Never.” I popped the kettle onto the stove and cranked the burner to high. “That’s my roommate’s. I think she’s expecting her boyfriend to pop the question soon.” I pulled a saucer and mug from the cupboard and scooped tea into it, then slid them in from of Frances.
A moment later, the kettle whistled, and I filled the mug with water. Across the small counter, we held hands.
Anticipation crackled like static across my skin as I centered my mind on Frances. Burt. Moss Grove.
There was a rustling from behind the door, like wind was blowing beneath it. I closed my eyes and reached, hoping it would once again heed my call.
The Sight could be present and distant. Two things at once: a yawning flower and drowning beneath waves. A closed door, and a thing reared on its haunches, eager to bite.
Come on. I imagined sliding my fingers along its seal, looking for a place to coax it open just enough to take what I needed.
Frances chugged the tea, then tipped the mug onto the saucer to allow the last droplets to drain away before righting the cup and sliding it to me.
We stared at it.
The air was thick. I focused.
Suddenly, I stumbled back, caught in the swell of euphoria, the gift returning to me like a lost friend, before panic tried to settle in. Choppy waves. The Sight yanking me down down down.
Without warning, the door opened too wide. The possibilities slammed into me. I breathed deep and gave in to the sensation.
A hand clenching my throat, closing my windpipe. Intense fear. My eyes popped open. I focused on the tea, forcing my gift into the conduit.
Loathing. Hattie-May’s drawings, those hungry roots. The swell of Frances’s cheek. The smell of metal. No. Not copper. Blood.
And that weight in my hands.
That weight.
That weight.
I was eight again, running into my mama’s room. I was eating blueberry pancakes. I was being sent off to school. I was alone.
My chest grew tight.
Mr. Fortenberry lay in the meadow, his blood sprayed around him like angel wings. Like a halo. Frances’s smile. Our hands clasping.
“Milly?” My sister’s voice. “Milly. Wake up.”
Frances in the forest. Frances with a bloody halo. Frances’s dark eyes hollow…
No. I had to close the door. To stop the flow. Too much. It was all too much. I was going to be sucked under. Swallowed whole.
“Milly?” Pain ignited across my cheek.
I blinked, and the sunbursts faded and Frances was across from me, one hand clamped over my shoulder, concern lining her face. I inhaled slowly then looked at the leaves, the smell of blood lingering in my nose.
The Sight was back. Full force. No more dirty windows or vague nudges.
And what I was seeing…
I peered into my sister’s cup. The shapes. The story.
“What is it?” Frances demanded. “Tell me.”
For years there’d been nothing but sister sister sister… I’d taken it as a cruelty. A punishment for running away from my family and my legacy. Maybe even for breaking the most important rule.
But now I saw. It wasn’t a taunt but a warning. I’d saved my sister once, and now, she needed me again.
“Well?” Frances asked.
“We need to make a plan,” I said. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll—”
“Milly, save the sales pitch.” She paused. “It’s bad, then.”
“Feels that way. Of course, things can change but…” I gave the smallest shrug.
She bit her lip. “Just tell me.”
I gestured toward the cup, to the dregs settled within. “There’s Puddle Creek. And you, I felt you there. Then, separately, Burt, I believe. And there’s death. But not like before—it’s a statement, not a hint. A scream.”
Frances paled.
“I think there will be an end for one of you.” I looked into her eyes. “Burt will die or you will. It doesn’t say exactly who. Or how.”
“He dies or I die,” she whispered. Her gaze switched from mine to the teacup, back to mine.
“We have to kill him, then.” She propped her elbows on the bar and cradled her chin in her palms. She spoke as if she were ticking things off a to-do list. Get the oil changed in the car.
Make a dentist’s appointment. Kill my husband.
“I thought I might, but this proves it.”
“Kill him? You thought you might have to… What are you talking about?”
“Milly, I don’t want to die.” She sat up, voice pleading. “I’ve thought for a while that he would kill me. It’s why I wanted you to read me. And that’s what the leaves said, right? It’s me or him?”
“That’s not going to happen. I won’t let it.” I meant what I said. I meant it more than I’d ever meant anything. “But there’s a big difference between Burt dying and us killing him.”
“But the leaves say he’s going to kill me.”
“No.” I shook my head. “They say either you’ll die or Burt will die. Let’s think about this for a moment, okay? Just calm down.”
“Calm down?” Frances snorted. “You want me to calm down? Oh. I’m sorry.
Excuse me for being worked up because my husband—who has killed before—is going to kill me if we don’t take care of him first.” She raked a hand over her face.
“You’re saying that it could mean something else—well do tell, sister dear.
What could they possibly be saying? I may not have the Sight, but it sounds pretty fucking clear to me.
Jesus.” She held her palms up in a halting motion.
“Excuse me if I don’t want to wait around and be his next victim. ”
Her wrists were bruised. Her lip cut. Then there was Blake’s dead girlfriend. And the things my sister had found, Burt’s trophies.
The world would be better without Burt Anderson in it, I wouldn’t argue against that.
But he wasn’t some small-town teacher. He was an Alabama Anderson. There’d be no leaving this earth quietly for him.
Having blood on my hands had almost undone me. I wasn’t sure I could do it again. Not unless there was no other way.
There was a flash of memory: the feeling of the shovel in my hand and the vibration that rang through me when it connected with Shane Fortenberry’s skull. There was a small whisper. I could do it again. I was powerful in that moment. I pushed the thought away, afraid of the sliver of truth in it.
I’d visited Mama in prison exactly once, but it had been enough to know that I wouldn’t allow that to become my fate. Life had been hard, but at least I had choices. “No way,” I said.
“What other options could I possibly have, Milly? It’s not like I can report him to anyone. I told you the police are his buddies.”
I turned and walked a tight circle around the dining area. “Frances, God, do you hear yourself? You sound eager—like you want to do it.”
“Don’t sit there and pretend to understand. This is a man who’s hurt me. Who’s killed. If the only way to ensure I get to live is to get him first, then yeah. I absolutely want to do it.” She paused, leveling a stony gaze at me. “And we’re sisters. You should help me.”
“Frances, no—”
“We can get him back to Puddle Creek, like the leaves say. We can do it there. The aunts can help us figure out a plan and then get rid of his body.”
His body. As if it were a done deal.
I shook my head. “The leaves aren’t always clear.” Hell, lately they’ve been anything but clear.
I wanted to tell her we couldn’t do this, couldn’t take a life and risk our freedom because of what I saw in a teacup, but then I thought of Hattie-May. Of the women she’d been rumored to help. How was this any different? I whispered, “What if I’m wrong?”
“Witchy Milly is never wrong.” Frances smiled when she said my old nickname, but there was desperation hiding in the sound.
“There has to be another solution. One we’re missing.
” I shut my eyes for a moment and took a bracing breath, letting the charge of my emotions settle.
“I’m not saying he shouldn’t die. But we can’t kill.
Not again. What if we keep you safe until he dies, keep him far away from you? Then this all goes away.”
I picked Andrea’s license up from the counter. Burt had already done enough to be sent away for a long, long time. Frances said his family owned their local police, and the public loved them, but that’s the thing about public opinion: It could change on a dime.
And the public also loved dead girls. If anyone had a chance in hell at turning Burt Anderson from Alabama’s favorite golden boy into a monster—it was Andrea.
We needed Burt to be locked away for what he’d already done. If Burt was in prison, he couldn’t kill my sister. She could disappear and live the life she deserved.
“You said Burt’s at a conference. When does he get home?”
“Yes. He’s at a men’s prayer conference in Atlanta. His flight lands tomorrow.”
“I have an idea.” I tapped Andrea’s license against the counter, more pieces sliding into place. “We need something that is linked to him without question. Something that could get lost.”
“Why? What are you thinking?”
I grabbed my keys from the bowl on the counter, hardly able to believe what I was about to suggest. “I’ll tell you all about it on the way to your house.”
“Wait. You want me to go back there? Milly. No.”
“Only to grab a few things. We won’t stay.”
“What if—” Frances wrung her hands. “What if Burt’s already back? What if I can’t leave again?”
“You’ll have me, and I’m not letting him keep you. No matter what.”
When she looked at me, she was the little girl waiting on the bench outside the principal’s office again. I remembered something Aunt Hattie used to always say. “Neither hell nor high water will keep me away.”
Frances smirked. “Maybe bring a shovel.”
I narrowed my gaze at my sister. “Not cool.” But for the first time in a long time, I smiled my real smile.
Because in a messed-up way, it was actually kind of funny.