Six feet away, dark, wet earth opened up like a wound in the ground.
Charlie’s teeth were chattering again. She could hear the clicking. Zach and Bon Jovi had dug a grave for Rusty, and now they were going to use it for Sam and Charlie.
They had to run.
Charlie knew that now, felt it to the core of her being. Sam could see, at least enough to see the grave. Which meant she might be able to see enough to run. There was no choice. They couldn’t stand here politely waiting for their own murders.
And whatever else Zachariah Culpepper had in mind.
Charlie squeezed Sam’s hand. Sam squeezed back that she was ready. All they had to do was wait for the right moment.
“All right, big boy. Time for you to do your part.” Zach leaned the shotgun butt on his hip. He slapped open a switchblade with his other hand. “The guns’ll be too loud. Take this. Right across the throat like you do with a pig.”
Bon Jovi stood there, unmoving.
Zach said, “Come on, like we agreed. You do her. I’ll take care of the little one.”
Bon Jovi said, “She’s right. We don’t have to do this. The plan wasn’t ever to hurt the women. They weren’t even supposed to be here.”
“Say what now?”
Sam squeezed Charlie’s hand even harder. They both watched, waited.
Bon Jovi said, “What’s done is done. We don’t have to make it worse by killing more people. Innocent people.”
“Jesus Christ.” Zach worked the knife closed then shoved it back into his pocket. “We went over this back in the kitchen, man. Ain’t like we gotta choice.”
“We can turn ourselves in.”
“Bull. Shit.”
Sam leaned into Charlie, pushing her a few steps to the right, getting her ready to go.
Bon Jovi said, “I’ll turn myself in. I’ll take the blame for everything.”
“The hell you will.” Zach shoved Bon Jovi in the chest. “You think I’m gonna go down on a murder charge ’cause you grew a fucking conscience?”
Sam let go of Charlie’s hand.
Charlie felt her heart drop into her stomach.
Sam whispered, “Charlie, run.”
“I won’t tell,” Bon Jovi said. “I’ll say it was me.”
Charlie tried to grab Sam’s hand back. They had to stay close so that she could show Sam the way.
“In my got-damn truck?”
Sam waved her away, whispering, “Go.”
Charlie shook her head. What did she mean? She couldn’t go without Sam. She couldn’t leave her sister here.
“Motherfucker.” Zach had the shotgun pointed at Bon Jovi’s chest. “This is what’s gonna happen, son. You’re gonna take my knife and you’re gonna slice open that bitch’s throat, or I will blow a hole in your chest the size of Texas.” He stamped his foot. “Right now.”
Bon Jovi pointed his gun at Zach’s head. “We’re gonna turn ourselves in.”
“Get that fucking gun outta my face, you pansy-ass piece of shit.”
Sam nudged Charlie, telling her to move. “Go.”
Charlie didn’t move. She wasn’t going to leave her sister.
Bon Jovi said, “I’ll kill you before I kill them.”
“You ain’t got the balls to pull that trigger.”
“I’ll do it.”
Charlie heard her teeth chattering again. Should she go? Would Sam follow her? Is that what she meant?
“Run,” Sam begged. “You have to run.”
Don’t look back. You have to trust me to be there.
“Piece of shit.” Zach’s free hand snaked out.
Bon Jovi backhanded the shotgun.
“Run!” Sam shoved her hard. “Charlie, go!”
Charlie fell back onto her ass, slamming into the ground. She saw the bright flash of the gun firing, heard the sudden explosion of the bullet leaving the barrel, and then a mist puffed from the side of Sam’s head.
Sam spun through the air, almost somersaulting like the fork had, into the gaping mouth of the grave.
Thunk.
Charlie stared at the open earth, waiting, begging, praying, for Sam to sit up, to look around, to say something, anything, that indicated that she was alive.
“Shit,” Bon Jovi said. “Christ. Jesus Christ.” He dropped the gun like it was poison.
Charlie saw the glint of metal from the weapon as it hit the ground. The flash of shock on Bon Jovi’s face. The sudden white of Zach’s teeth when he grinned.
At Charlie.
He was grinning at Charlie.
She scrambled away, crab-like, on her hands and heels.
Zach started toward her, but Bon Jovi grabbed his shirt. “What the fuck are we going to do?”
Charlie’s back hit a tree. She pushed herself up. Her knees shook. Her hands shook. Her whole body was shaking. She looked at the grave. Her sister was in a grave. Sam had been shot in the head. Charlie couldn’t see her, didn’t know if she was alive or dead or needed help or—
“It’s okay, sweetpea,” Zach told Charlie. “Stay right there for me.”
“I j-just—” Bon Jovi stuttered. “I just killed … I just …”
Killed.
He couldn’t have killed Sam. The bullet from the gun was small, not like the shotgun. Maybe it hadn’t really hurt her. Maybe Sam was okay, hiding in the grave, ready to spring up and run.
But she wasn’t springing up. She wasn’t moving, or talking, or shouting, or bossing everybody around.
Charlie needed her sister to speak, to tell her what to do. What would Sam say right now? What would she tell Charlie to do?
Zach said, “You cover this bitch up. Lemme take the little one off for a minute.”
“Christ.”
Sam wouldn’t be talking right now, she would be yelling, furious at Charlie for just standing there, for blowing this chance, for not doing what Sam had coached her to do.
Don’t look back … trust me to be there … keep your head down and—
Charlie ran.
Her arms flailed. Her feet struggled for purchase. Tree limbs slashed at her face. She couldn’t breathe. Her lungs felt like needles were stabbing into her chest.
Breathe through it. Slow and steady. Wait for the pain to pass.
They used to be best friends. They used to do everything together. And then Sam had gone to high school and Charlie had been left behind, and the only way she could get her sister’s attention was to ask Sam to teach her how to run.
Don’t hold the tension. Breathe in for two strides. Breathe out for one.
Charlie hated every part of running because it was stupid and it hurt and it made you sore, but she had wanted to spend time with Sam, to do something that her sister was doing, to maybe be better at it one day than Sam was, so Charlie went to the track with her sister, she joined the team at school, and she timed herself every day because every day, she was getting faster.
“Get back here!” Zach yelled.
Two miles to the second farmhouse. Twelve, maybe thirteen minutes. Charlie couldn’t run faster than a boy, but she could run for longer. She had the stamina, the training. She knew how to ignore the pain in her body. To breathe into the shock in her lungs when the air sliced like a razor.
What she had never trained for was the panic from hearing the heavy tread of boots pounding dirt behind her, the way the thud-thud-thud vibrated inside of her chest.