At the southern end of Alabama, runs hills that break off from the Appalachian mountain range. Driving around those hills gives me comfort like nothing else.

Squeezing high between most any two peaks are traditional southern swamps filled with gators and moss-covered Bald Cypress. Down around another bend, wide valleys are full of cattle, stinky pigs, or them godawful chicken farms. Next, more mid-range, are clear shimmering lakes with old Hillbilly's huts perched beside them, including bearded men fishing, living their best life without a woman to nag them.

I wanted to interrupt their peace, but I knew better.

On yesterday's drive, I reached the closest thing to a city that I'll ever know. I'm terrified of life—a legacy of my uncle. A ton of things were left to me by him—much of it not his in the first place.

I was heading for the local coffee shop, run by a community church called Hebrews.

The funniest thing was that the barista is a former drug cartel agent. Tatted up, three tears under his left eye—a man you didn't think would turn into one of those old-school Jesus freaks. Apolo quite regularly would tell newcomers he was named after the author of the book the shop was named for, but they weren't spelled the same. If you lusted for reformed murderers and daddy complexes, come spend your time sighing dreamily at the man. I think his internalized punishment for his past is celibacy.

A pity...

Honestly, he's more free than me, but I wasn't here for him.

The hot summer's glare killed the lighting. I couldn't see a thing as I walked in, and I stood there, blinking owlishly against my round rims.

A hand pushed me on my right shoulder. I jerked towards it. Then a voice on my left spoke, "You've finally arrived, our main suspect."

A shriek flew out of me as I tried to shuffle my way ass first out the door. Eventually, I calmed down enough to take a breath as the yellow tape became visible. Damn eyesight had me thinking back to that one day that changed my life, not to a current crime scene.

"Alright, who died now?" I turned to face my friend-turned-foster-brother of more than half a decade, Jeff Turnsby.

"Oh, nobody, Macie." They put a too-small Postman's outfit on a 6'4" former Lineman, and he looks like a cross between a stripper and Mr. Bean.

I'm blind.

There's so much awkwardness you can't unsee. Thankfully, it's a very platonic relationship. "I just got the old place decorated to celebrate your hard-won court case."

That's when the many friends I more owe to his on-display junk than to my personality shrieked, "Surprise!"

It was from the corner of the shop, nowhere near me.

Really, this is All Things Jeff.

Ok, Willemina was a genuine friend, and that's why the doofus is engaged to her. This once-girl-heavy group was dispersing slowly.

I still put up with the Johnson twins (who had menagerie...no, ménage trois goals), Dense Kelly (a pansexual who calls themselves dense and talks about marrying frying pans for fun), Rita Toleda, Văn VanVans (Alice had her name changed to comply with Grandpa's will—he hated everything "ex-wife"), and Lewis (the tool that married Alice and was upset over her name change instead of her greedily staring at Jeff's groin). You would expect a group like this to be catty as hell, but this is our 7th summer after high school together.

We found things we liked outside of our quirks, like when Kelly quit upsetting the old Bible Thumpers? They now run a charity shop together that focuses on foster children.

"Alright! Go order your drink and get your butt over here, girlie!" Willemina yodeled.

"I'm goin'.'" I said that as I clasped my brother's shoulder, pushing him towards her.

"What's shakin', sugar?" Apolo gave me a smirk that tempted grannies and jailbait alike.

"Nothin', just got my uncle declared dead—the usual," I pulled out a 10 with a faint blush staining my cheeks—$8 for me and $2 for him. I had to find something else to stare at while he made my drink.

Of course, the only other patron here was this gorgeous dark-skinned man, likely of African descent, but the Seminole pattern of his Native-derived shirt and jacket screamed a more complex ancestry, and his ears showed a case of bilateral Stahl's ears—not common, outside Asians. The thought that this interesting stranger saw how I nearly shat myself made me blush all the harder—very easy to see on my pale skin.

That and the shrewd look he gave at me as I noticed him left me feeling exposed—he could see all my sins on my face.

I scurried like a cockroach once I got my order. I couldn't face more scrutiny, not after that scare.

The spot left open to me was a chair added at the end of the round booth—the fate of the last person. "Are we really celebrating Rowland being declared dead with crimescene tape?"

"I had some left over..." the dominatrix of the twins smirked, reliving scenes. "Considering how many times ol' Greg accused you of murdering him, we call this getting away with murder."

I fought against freezing for seven years. Seven years of torment, learning to not show absolute fear.

But it was the same joke as always. No one gives a shit about Rowland Hennessy.

A pleasant evening in a dry county.

We stayed for a while, chatting. Further north, everyone planned on going to a nightclub over the county line—the strippers were illegal, not the booze. I stayed back, heading home—I needed to clean out the old family home, a house I've only slept in for three nights recently.

Willemina looked at me dubiously. I didn't often pass on a night out. I guess I'm more rattled than I noticed.

~~~

I woke up the next morning to someone sitting in a chair, staring at me. "What the hell, Willie?"

"When were you going to tell me you killed your uncle?"

There. The accusation I dreaded—mostly because Greg made my life a living hell because of his suspicions.

"I'm not awake right now; can we save this for later?"

"I've put the kettle on the stove for tea."

That's when I knew she wasn't fooling around. Southerners don't do hot tea. Willie's mom is British and moved to the deep south with a lot of strange traditions. It was a national pastime to spill the tea, and you couldn't do that properly over a cold drink that sucked the soul right out of you. You daintily sipped as you reminded yourself of ingesting hellfire while unburdening your soul.

So I grumbled as I got up.

"Oh, I couldn't find the tea, by the way."

I yawned, muttering around my unhinged jaw. "Don't worry, I got it."

Two mugs later, I plopped down yet again on the island, stirring a spoon around my bag. Lady Grey. Willemina had a loose-leaf Jasmine blend she favored when she forced me through private therapy.

"So, I know you did it..."

"Did what?"

"Don't be shy, love. You always freaked out when someone accused you of nefarious deeds, but you calmed down as soon as you noticed the caution tape. You knew that whatever was going on couldn't get to you, but the accusation could. Now I know—I was just surprised it took me 7 years to see it. So, why? Your uncle loved you."

"No, he didn't."

"Why hide it if he did something so wrong to deserve this? I can take a secret to my grave if it has merit. Just give me enough that I don't have to go to Greg."

I was glad we were in our third cup by the time she challenged me.

"I don't feel so good, babe." She started to sway in her seat.

I jumped up, alarmed. "Don't fall and hit your head; I'll get in enough trouble without that. Here, let me help you to my couch, alright?"

"No, no..." Willie slurred. She sounded like she was having a seizure. "Get me to a hospital. Something is wrong."

It was hard, dragging her ass to her vehicle. I was glad she had a full tank—the old family home was in the boonies.

Twists and turns as she held her head, mumbling against the sunlight—thankfully, she passed out before I turned on a forgotten dirt road.

This valley was more like a rended hill; it just fits a car through and is easily hidden by the bushes off the junction road. Eventually the walls of earth gave way to a thick little swamp on both sides of the track, ending abruptly at a cabin. I found myself cursing as I carefully climbed out.

Then I dragged my best friend out, dropping her by the decorative miniature millstone that I once could barely lift.

One I intended to lift repeatedly today.

Life from this point on flashed before my eyes. Comforting Jeff—he'd turn to me, expecting reciprocation back from when my uncle disappeared. That could lead to the return of old, unwanted relationships. If it kept him from digging too deep into Willie's disappearance, I'd marry him myself.

That almost made me spill my tea, alright?

I reached down, picked up the stone, and thought, Either I end an innocent life to protect myself or I run the risk of being jailed for murder.

I stood there, thinking, until I felt like the millstone was around my neck—not in my hands.

So I threw off the burden.

Not on my friend's head, but into the swamp.

Never again.

Willimena felt much lighter as I dragged her up the stairs and into the cabin.

I placed her on the couch and sat down by it with my arms over my knees, counting down my time for a confession I never wanted to make.

A hand touched my shoulder.

I jumped, then turned back to look at Willie.

This wasn't some pale English girl. It was the Stahl's-eared man from the cafe. Dafuq? "An innocent murderer... I've waited centuries for one like you."

"What?!" That was all I could squeak out before I relived the hell I tried so hard to ignore. The very drug I used on this creature and my uncle—when it was used on me. It was his stash after all—roofies.

The confusion increased as I dated Jeff when we were two virgins, while my waistline followed. Holding my disfigured baby, wondering how the hell it happened. My uncle's confession as he smothered it, then made me get up and go make dinner.

I caught him as he slipped the pill in my drink. I knew that I wouldn't wake up this time.

He shouldn't have taken his eyes off the table.

He should have known that ignorance wasn't a sign of stupidity.

That small millstone was satisfying to lay on him.

I left his body in that swamp, entombed in his truck for eternity, then walked out of there. I hitched a ride back home with some trucker who lectured me on the dangers of hitchhiking and said that he was glad to keep a pretty little thing like me safe.

I came out of the memory bawling in this stranger's lap, oddly comforted. I looked at him, confused. "What are you?"

"A blood fairy. Deputy Greg invoked a bloodwright to clear this death debt. He wants justice. The problem is that you were justified, and though capable, your morals outweigh your self-preservation. The summons still demands justice, though not from you. For you, I have a proposition."

I stiffened in his arms, fearing what this.. this... thing would offer.

He laughed. "I'm sure something of that nature would come with time, my dear. After all, a mortal body is ambrosia, but I want your mind more, my apprentice. I need a mortal who walks that area where justice and vengeance blur together."