The whole family was overjoyed when I got my acceptance letter to Duke. That night, to celebrate, I cooked for them. A real feast. To thank them for everything they’d done for me. The next morning, they were all dead. My parents, my grandma, my sister, my uncle’s family next door. The poison was fast and merciless. Not a single one survived. I confessed on the spot. Told the sheriff I did it, told him exactly how. But he just stared at me from across the cold metal table of the interrogation room, his eyes sharp and knowing. “I know you’re lying, Casey,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Now tell me. Who’s the real killer?” 1 For as long as I can remember, Grandma Maeve had one obsession: a grandson. A boy to carry on the Miller name. But my mama, it seemed, wasn't built for it. Two pregnancies, two daughters. Me and my older sister, Clara. In our small, dusty corner of Georgia, a woman who only bore daughters was a dead end. A "barren branch," they’d call her. Lower than a stray dog in the town’s pecking order. After Mama’s third miscarriage, something in Grandma Maeve snapped. On the night of my tenth birthday, she called my Uncle Ray over. Daddy pushed a slice of dry cake into my hands and told me to stay in the woodshed and not make a peep. I didn’t understand what was happening at first. I just remember Uncle Ray, stinking of cheap whiskey, stumbling toward Clara’s room. Then came Mama’s choked sobs from outside the shed, followed by Grandma Maeve’s venomous hiss. “Useless. God cursed this family the day my son brought you into it. The Miller line will not end with you. If you can’t give me a grandson, your girl will. And she’ll keep trying until she does.” Panic seized me. I started screaming, clawing at the woodshed door, but Daddy yanked it open just to slap me hard across the face, sending me sprawling into the dirt. Then, I heard Uncle Ray’s voice, a drunken roar from inside the house. “You little bitch! You dare scratch me? I’ll beat the hell out of you!” The next morning, when I crept into Clara’s room, she was huddled under the window, clutching her blanket like a shield. Her eyes were swollen and red from a night of crying. Her fingernails were broken, the beds dark with dried blood. His, or hers, I couldn’t tell. Her arms were a canvas of angry purple bruises. I reached out and touched her shoulder. “Clara?” She flinched like I’d burned her, letting out a sharp, terrified cry. When she saw it was me, she collapsed into my arms, her body shaking with silent, ragged sobs. From the hallway, Grandma Maeve’s voice drifted in, cold and bored. “Every woman goes through it. What’s all the screaming about? Pushing out a baby hurts a hell of a lot more. You should see what you did to your uncle’s back, you little heathen. Should’ve tied you to the bedpost.” 2 The nightmare didn’t end. Uncle Ray came over for the next several days. Sometimes in the afternoon, sometimes late at night. Grandma Maeve had consulted some old root doctor who told her the best times for conceiving a boy. Each time he came, Mama and Clara would cry. And when their crying got on Daddy’s nerves, he’d take Mama outside and beat her quiet. I stopped going to school. I’d stand watch by the front door, and the second I saw Uncle Ray’s pickup truck kicking up dust down the road, I’d bolt the door. It only earned me a beating from Grandma Maeve, who’d grab me by my braids and thrash me. “You little snake! You tryin’ to keep me from my grandson?” “You’re the snake! I hope you never get one!” I screamed back one day, fueled by a courage I didn’t know I had. The world went fuzzy as my head slammed against the stone wall of the well. “Good-for-nothing brat!” she shrieked, banging my head against the stone again and again. “I’ll teach you to talk back!” If Mama hadn’t run out and pulled her off, she would have killed me right there. … The universe has a funny way of settling debts. After a few days, Uncle Ray stopped coming. Grandma Maeve paced the porch, muttering, “Where’s he got to? These are the last good days this month.” They found him in the old dry well at the edge of the woods. Starved to death. The town just figured he’d been drunk and fallen in. When she heard her precious son was dead, Grandma Maeve wailed like a banshee. Daddy just stood by her, a silent, stoic statue. Clara insisted on going to see. When they pulled his body out, she just stared, her face a blank mask. Mama held her. “It’s over now, baby girl,” she whispered. “That animal can’t hurt you anymore.” But Clara’s eyes were locked on me. A strange, unnerving stare that made my skin crawl. “Clara? What is it?” I asked. She didn’t answer. Just then, we heard the sirens. Sheriff Brody arrived, his face grim. The scene was a mess. Half the town had come to gawk, trampling any evidence, leaving a carpet of sunflower seed shells and cigarette butts. A few of the braver men had left greasy handprints on the well’s edge when they’d peered in. “Whose boot prints are these?” Brody demanded. “Don’t make me check every man in this town.” “Mine, Sheriff,” a farmer drawled. “Went to take a piss this morning and nearly watered your crime scene.” Brody held up a small scrap of floral fabric. “Anyone recognize this?” Silence. Then one of the men chuckled. “Sheriff, half the women in this county got a pair of panties made from that cloth. You wanna start checkin’?” The crowd roared with laughter. Brody’s face turned red. He started taking statements. When he asked if Ray had any enemies, I pushed my way to the front. I had to tell him what he’d done to Clara. But before I could speak, Grandma Maeve’s hand shot out and yanked my hair. “Your uncle loved you more than anything!” she howled for the crowd. “Aren’t you gonna cry for him?” Her grip tightened, and a sharp slap stung my cheek, bringing tears to my eyes. Sheriff Brody started walking toward me. “Not. A. Word,” Grandma whispered fiercely in my ear. “You keep your mouth shut, I’ll fry you up some bacon when we get home. You say anything, I’ll skin you alive.” Ray was dead. He couldn’t hurt Clara anymore. I nodded, turned to his bloated corpse, and started to sob. Brody gave my grandma a hard look but moved on. No one in town liked Uncle Ray, but you don’t speak ill of the dead. He got nothing. A few weeks later, the official report came back: suicide. Grandma Maeve let out a long sigh of relief and had Daddy arrange the cremation immediately. 3 With Uncle Ray gone, you’d think Grandma Maeve would be miserable. But she was happier than I’d ever seen her. Because Ray had left the Miller family a parting gift. Clara was pregnant. Suddenly, nothing was too good for my sister. The best cuts of meat, fresh eggs every morning, a new mattress so she wouldn’t “catch a chill.” Grandma was convinced her grandson was finally on his way. Clara and I would share secret smiles when she’d sneak me one of her eggs. But the waiting was killing Grandma. She had to know if it was a boy. A trip to the hospital in the city was too expensive, especially if the news was bad. So she went to see the root doctor again. The old woman looked at Clara, felt her belly, and shook her head. “It’s a girl,” she declared. Grandma Maeve’s face turned to thunder. Daddy grabbed a thick stick, ready to bring it down on Clara’s stomach. “I’ll get rid of it right now!” he roared. “Hold on!” the root doctor said, stopping him. “I said it’s a girl now. I didn’t say it had to stay one.” She produced a small vial of dark, oily liquid. “This here is ‘turnin’ oil,’” she said. “One drop in her tea every night at the stroke of midnight. It’ll turn that girl baby into a proper boy. Twenty dollars a bottle. You’ll need three.” Sixty dollars. It was a fortune to us. But for a grandson, Daddy paid without a second thought. Grandma Maeve forced the vile stuff down Clara’s throat every night. But before the first bottle was even empty, Clara started bleeding. We rushed her to the clinic. The doctor said she’d been poisoned. The “turnin’ oil” was loaded with nightshade. If we’d waited any longer, it would’ve killed them both. They saved Clara, but the baby was gone. The doctor held up the tiny, lifeless form. It had been a boy. Grandma Maeve collapsed, wailing about her lost grandson, cursing Clara for being too weak to hold onto him even with the magic oil. The worst news came later. The doctor said the poison had ruined Clara’s womb. She’d never be able to have children. When Clara heard that, a small, relieved smile touched her lips. At least the torture was finally over. Grandma Maeve’s hope died that day, replaced by a simmering, silent rage. And sometimes, when she thought no one was looking, I’d catch her staring at me. A long, calculating stare that sent a shiver down my spine. Her eyes were darker and more terrifying than the unlit country roads at night. I started staying out late after school, doing anything to avoid being home alone with her.
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