Part 1Cottonmouth Son

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?”

* * *

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.”