Chapter One

Dog Finger

Omens come in all manner of ways. Warnings to let you know death is coming. Pretty much everything portends death when Appalachia is deep in your family roots. If a bird flies into your house, somebody in your family is going to die. Same for a broken clock that starts ticking again, or cows you hear mooing after midnight.

Or black ferns that grow where there were none the day before.

Grandmama calls them Devil's Weed, says they're black because they feed off the Devil's soul. Papaw said they were black because of the coal-rich earth they grew on higher in the mountains.

Mrs. Penny Hammer, my eighth-grade biology teacher, said it wasn't nothing to do with coal or evil. It was the anthocyanins pigment that colored them black, a purple-black like blackberries. Except...Mrs. Hammer didn't account for the fact that folklore is stronger than science around here. No amount of biology will convince local folks black ferns are harmless. They eat up the forests, you see. So much so, they gave us our town name.

Black Fern, Georgia, isn't just a town named after its foliage. It's where death shrouds with a heavy hand. Furtive ground for a Death Talker to reside.

The wind chime of trinkets hanging in my bedroom window clinks and twinkles in the morning wind. Lost or discarded objects that no one would miss. Shiny things. Tiny things. A piece of Christmas tinsel. A broken car key. Cracked crystal droplet from a chandelier. The silver propeller of a toy plane. A shiny copper button with the black corduroy fabric still attached. A cracked mirrored lens from Cindy Higgin's sunglasses.

Barely ten items.

One for every time the crow boy has visited me.

One for every life I have failed.

It's been years since I've seen Rook—a walker of souls; a boy who is sometimes a crow. Years since I failed to save someone. The more time that passes, the more I start to wonder if I made him up. One of those imaginary friends children create to keep themselves from being bored or lonely or sad.

The ching of a bike bell rings, yanking me from my thoughts. Tires from my childhood pink pedal bike have long since melted in the dirt. My cousin Adaire, expectant. Hand firmly on her hip. Her expression a clear, Are you ready? Or are you wasting the morning daydreaming?

I never will be ready for today.

Besides, daydreaming might be the only gift I get. I glance at the calendar flipped to June. The nineteenth. Happy Birthday to me.

I remember what Adaire wore the last time I saw her at church. Her favorite goldenrod-yellow T-shirt—it was plum ugly by itself and worse with that green-plaid wool miniskirt she cherished. For the love of Jesus, it was hotter than sin that day. Why in God's good name she ever bought that outfit I will never know.

I feel like a fraud dressed like I am. My khaki skirt, pencil straight and too tight, rests sinfully two inches above my knees. My white blouse, with a rounded collar, is thin enough my white bra glows. I pull my long hair forward in hopes it hides my nipples. The brown penny loafers, scuffed to hell, are as restricting as the Bible. It's clear I've outgrown the whole outfit, but it's the most "professional" type clothes I own. And Aunt Violet said that's what I ought to wear in court.

"I'm coming," I whisper to the wind, dreading what's to come.

Grandmama and Bone Layer have already left for the courthouse. I chastise myself for not leaving when they did; now I'll probably be late.

Our four-room house is a modest rectangle deep in the Georgia pines. Sparse belongings that tend to the necessities of life. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Poor folks are people who can't afford what they need. We had food, shelter, and Jesus; we didn't "need" nothing else, but it sure felt like we were poor.

Morning sun filters in the windows of the great room, capturing the dust particles that perpetually float. The haint blue paint on the ceiling makes the room extra bright, cheerful even.

It's a lie. There's nothing cheerful in this house.

The light aqua blue shade goes back to an old Appalachia practice. Blue is the color of water, and spirits can't transverse across water. Healing work tends to bring about things you don't want following you home.

The room is more kitchen than living room as the long plank table takes up most of the space. It serves as our workstation on days we make the baked goods, jams, and crow dolls we sell at the roadside market.

This table is also where Grandmama embalmed my papaw.

A lone chicken egg waits next to Grandmama's recipe box in the kitchen windowsill. Saved for me. Against the light, the veined red ring and spoiled bloody yolk show through. Perfect. Gently, I tuck it into a Styrofoam coffee cup and grab a pouch of rosehip itching powder from the witching box.

Hurrying out the door, I can't help it and glance around for evidence a birthday cake was made or a present has been wrapped. But I know better than to expect a gift from Grandmama, and she's about the only family I got left.

But today isn't about me, or my birth. It's about what the judge decides and the justice our family deserves.

From underneath the porch step, I grab the witching jar I made just for today. A handful of graveyard dirt, nine nails, and a guilty man's name penned three times.

My old white '74 Mustang cowers in the weeds next to the woodshed. A piece of shit, with a hard plastic interior coated in red Krylon spray paint. I scraped my pennies together to buy it, only for it to die four short months later. It had starter issues, so I had to park on hills, roll it into second gear, and pop the clutch to get it going. Now the clutch is wore out, it needs a new starter, and the battery is dead. Two-hundred and fifty dollars to fix it all, Davis said. Half what I paid for it.

Adaire's car door shrieks when I open it. Sunspots burn the Pontiac Grand Prix's silver skin like festering bedsores. Cracked red vinyl pinches the back of my legs when I sit. The fan belt shrills as the engine grumbles a deep gravely sound from being forced awake. The car guzzles gas faster than a drunk at an open bar, but it gets me from A to B and she has no need for it anymore.

Silently, I drive the long road into town. A dark cloud shades the car, and I look up.

Crows, hundreds of them. Low-flying ordinary crows. Their screeching and caws like playful chatter. I sigh and wonder if Rook is among them, watching me. Would he know who I am in that form?

With the windows down, dirt gathers in my teeth from the dusty road and six miles later I roll up on Main Street. A single paved road drawn down the middle of a skeleton town. A hodgepodge of flat-front brick buildings line both sides. Most of the businesses can't make up their mind if they want to stay or close up, about as fickle as the weather. They're all in a state of disrepair except Patsy's Cut and Curl and Mr. Wiggly's, which used to be the five-and-dime back in the day; now it's where you can get your groceries while stocking up on your farming supplies.

Parking spaces are usually a dime a dozen. But today, with the beloved mayor's reputation under legal scrutiny, everybody and their mama is here.

I find a spot behind the old Ritz movie theater, which closed down after its last showing of Kramer vs. Kramer—someone has since strategically rearranged the letters to read ram me.

The heat and my pantyhose are working together to chafe the insides of my thighs as I hustle down Main Street. Sweat spots weep underneath my armpits. Under my tit-pits. And an angry blister threatens to punch through my heel if I don't ditch these penny loafers soon.

That fragile egg waits patiently in the Styrofoam cup in my hand. Witching jar snug underneath my elbow.

My eyes scan the row of cars until I find Stone Rutledge's Corvette, its red curves like a pair of lips, puckered for an ass-kissing. I duck below the line of sight and crouch next to his car, pulling the witching jar out from under my arm. I crack the lid just enough and slip my words inside.

Do unto you as you have done unto me.

Suffer as I have suffered.

For all the anger you've sewn, shall my rage not relent.

Until truth leave your tongue and your soul repent.

The clock tower dongs the eight o'clock hour. Shit. I screw the lid back on and stuff the witching jar underneath his back tire and hurry to the hearing.

My words as fervent as a prayer as I tie three knots into the black yarn pulled from my pocket as I rush down the sidewalk.

"With this knot, I seal this hex."

You will not sleep. I tie a knot.

You will not eat. I tie another.

You will not rest until thine is done. I tie the last one.

But then my pace slows as I come upon the courthouse at the end of the street—Holiest House of Ill Repute. Bodies pile up between the double doors like a jammed storm drain. The rest of them spill over and down the fat concrete steps into the street.

I pause, wondering if I really need to go in at all.

I could just stay here.

Watch the people's reaction when the judge makes his decision, then I'd know immediately one way or the other.

Adaire stands there in front of me, silent as the grave. Her eyes pan down to the toes of my shoes. There, twiddling in the light breeze, a black feather. A wish on a crow feather.

A sign.

It's enough to push my feet forward. I scoop it up, tucking it away in my bra for later.

A gaggle of farm-fed, thick-bellied men clog the doorway. Even as I try to wedge myself through, I'm elbowed back. Junior Maddox bucks back in surprise. Surprised I'm not already in there? Or that I have the gall to touch him? I'm not certain.

Just when it seems like the human sea will part for me to enter, I realize they're opening the way for my cousin Wyatt's fast exit.

Slurred curses fly from Aunt Violet as Wyatt escorts her out of the door. Snot drivels from her nose. The sickly sweet smell of whiskey tarnishes her breath.

"I've got her!" Wyatt waves a hand for me not to bother helping. He doesn't get Aunt Violet more than three feet from the door when she pops. Whatever liquid diet she's survived on the last couple weeks splatters across the stone steps.

The parted bodies are already melding back together, so I ram through before they seal off the entrance again. Voices hush as I enter. Not for me but for the defendant as they walk him in from the side door.

A smug uncuffed Stone Rutledge walks into the room with a boastful grin slapped across his face and an assured ease about his shoulders.

His navy suit waxed smooth, something straight out of an episode of Dallas. Glimmering gold cuff links wink at the end of his starched white sleeves. His sky blue tie, no doubt imported silk, snubs up tight around his neck. His skin Bahamas tan and always flushed red from years of heavy drinking. He's a tall, lean man with a perpetual sternness about him. Like all the emotion has been drained out of him, and all that's left is a block of ice. He sits back in the defendant's chair like a lazy king. Sugar King around these parts, generational wealth he inherited from the sugar plantations, instead of earned. As if that makes him qualified to be the town's mayor.

Court is like a church wedding; you can tell who you're there for by what side you're sitting on. It's a handful on our side and then everybody else. Except the everybody else is too large to occupy one side alone, so unwillingly they've spilled over into ours, though still a few rows back from any actual supporters we might claim. They've all squeezed in here like Wanda Travis's too-big titties in her tiny bra. Ain't enough room to even breathe.

Just behind Stone is his perfect little family. His wife, Rebecca Rutledge, with her flawless hot-rolled hair and her blush-pink Chanel suit, has her nose stuck high in the air, like she caught a whiff of something unpleasant. She just so happens to be the judge's niece, too—how convenient. Their twin children, Lorelei and Ellis Rutledge, are only a year or so younger than me. Lorelei has that same haughty arrogance as her parents; I guess a fancy Princeton degree will do that to you. Ellis, though, he doesn't seem to have that hard edge like the rest of them. I think he's an artist, which means Mom and Dad pay his bills while he plays with paint. Must be nice.

"All rise!" the bailiff calls for everyone's attention. He announces the honorable Judge Jeb Walker Newsome now presiding. It's about as quiet in here as the preacher's altar call on Sunday nights as he enters.

The judge takes his bench. All the folks sit. I look for my people. Second row on the left, Bone Layer's massive shoulders loom; he's a boulder in a room of rocks. The knotted gray bun on the back of Grandmama's head right next to him. The two seats recently vacated by Wyatt and my aunt are already being filled. Behind them, I see Davis Yancey, his dark tall frame crumpled over. He looks as broken as a sinner finding his way back into church. Mrs. Yancey pats a supportive hand on his back. He ain't family. But he almost was.

It's as if Mrs. Yancey hears me thinking about them. She turns. Her sad brown eyes find me straightaway. Her small smile a patch of sunshine in a cloudy room of stares. My eyes slip to the floor. It's hard to bear her kindness for long. Not when I failed them, too. Failed Mr. Harvey Yancey, who should be sitting there with them, but he died years ago. Because I couldn't save him.

I find a scratch of wall on the left side to wedge myself against. Protectively holding my red-yolk egg in the cup in my hand.

I had decided not to come. It felt pointless, considering Stone Rutledge and the family were so beloved.

Untouchable.

But then Adaire wouldn't let me alone. Pestered and bugged me that this was important. Whatever bullshit I thought I should deal with was secondary to showing up today. Maybe she's right.

Everybody and their mama is here. The heat of their stares burning up any confidence I brought with me. My head tells me I'm grown, and I don't give a rat's ass what these folk think about me. Then my heart reminds me I was raised here and somehow, in this screwed-up world, their opinion of me matters. Their hateful energy causes me to shrink back into my shallow piece of wall, and I loathe myself for caring.

And I know what they're thinking. The fact our family even pressured the sheriff to arrest Stone Rutledge, the town mayor—we ought to be ashamed. A good man who brought a piece of Georgia tourism our way and saved our last grocery store from closing; it's like he was God or something.

What happened was an "accident."

What anyone has yet to explain to me is how you "accidently" drive over someone twice.

"You ready for Sunday's bass tournament?" the judge asks Stone. "'Cause I hear you lost your lucky fishing hat." A murmur of low jovial noise warms the room.

"If the bass you catch Sunday is anything like what you caught last weekend, Jeb, I won't need a lucky hat." The room chuckles right along with Stone.

"Hey now, watch yourself." The judge playfully points at Stone.

Their jesting is a stab in my ribs.

The judge says something to his court reporter, who hands him the papers he needs. Reading glasses poised at the end of his nose, he takes his sweet time familiarizing himself with the case, as if he doesn't already know the facts. We all quietly wait for him to catch up. The taut silence that's descended is about to spring my last nerve.

"Smithy," the judge calls to the prosecution.

John Delaney Smith—Smithy to his pals—is a well-known drunk. He's a worthless attorney, if you ask me. And in a town where good ole boys can do no wrong, Smithy mysteriously gets assigned to all the "important" cases. I'm pretty sure he was in that same wrinkled black suit last night at the Watering Hole, a honky-tonk off the side of the road that's one foot past the city limits, where it's legal to sell beer in Black Fern County. Except on Sundays.

Hell, this wasn't even a trial. It's just a preliminary hearing to see if Stone might've committed a crime, and should charges be brought against him.

"Yes, sir." Smithy stands, drowning in his too-big suit. Hard drinking will waste you away like that. His shaky hand fidgets with the knot in his sloppy tie. He smooths down his unwashed black hair. There's a sway about him, one you might not notice unless you know a drunk personally. It's like a body forever out to sea, lightly bobbing in the waves.

"Says here," the judge starts, "the family insists the twenty-three-year-old victim was not intoxicated on the day of the event? Even though she lived with a known alcoholic?"

My teeth grind together. Not just the family. My family.

Judge Newsome shuffles through his papers as if earnestly looking for something. "For the life of me I cannot find the results of the toxicology report to confirm this." He raises a questioning brow to Smithy. There's a tone in his voice. Scripted even. He knows the answer but he's asking it here, out loud, so everyone knows.

My heart crumples.

"Unfortunately, Your Honor, the results were inconclusive. And the hospital was unable to perform a second toxicology test on the body because the family insisted on burial rites. They still practice in some...arcane ways of taking care of their own dead." And he's supposed to be our attorney? Murmurs and whispers scatter around the courtroom. Arcane makes us sound more hillbilly than necessary.

"So we do not have any evidence to substantiate the family's claim?"

"That is correct, Your Honor."

"Your Honor." Stone's lawyer stands. Introduces himself as Attorney John Klein of the Atlanta law firm of Klein, Klein, and Winchester. He's an uppity man with a suit even fancier than his client's. He holds up a set of papers. "Here we have the defendant's own recounting of the events that took place on the night in question." The bailiff comes over to collect the papers and passes them off to the judge. "As you can see, it was well into dusk when my client was driving home."

Dusk. The hour of crows.

"Mr. Rutledge recalls seeing erratic movement in the road ahead. It was not until it was too late did he realize a person was swerving—drunkenly—on a bicycle in the middle of the road. Dark clothing. No proper reflectors. As my client tried tirelessly to resuscitate the victim, he recalls the pungent odor of whiskey on her clothes."

Liar. Liar! LIAR!My teeth grind harder.

"And there is the additional eyewitness testimony..." He hands another set of papers to the bailiff for the judge. "It corroborates that the victim was seen that very afternoon at the Watering Hole. The liquor establishment is not quite two miles down the road from the incident. A place the family is known to frequent."

"Yes." The judge glowers at the document claiming just that. "Not an establishment our Baptist community is too proud of, Mr. Klein. Thank you for this detailed and thorough recounting of events. Smithy, do you have anything else as evidence?"

Smithy fumbles over his words but confirms all accounts of Stone's statement and the eyewitness testimony have been verified and, to the best of his knowledge, there is nothing further to be submitted.

"It is clear to me," the judge begins and my blood starts to simmer, "that without any evidence of negligence or malice, we can assume the defendant is not responsible, and that the victim carried a degree of responsibility as well in the outcome of events. With no clear evidence to be put forward by the prosecution, by the state of Georgia, I hereby accept the defendant's motion to dismiss. Court is adjourned." Judge Newsome slams down his gavel. The finality of the wood cracking like a hammer on the last nail into a coffin.

Voices rise up in the courtroom, the relief and joy enough to feast on.

Doesn't matter how much you expect the outcome; there's still something about hearing it that hits you harder than you're prepared for.

Dismissed, like a teacher who's simply allowing students to leave for the day.

Dismissed, as if Stone's actions were unimportant. Insignificant. Irrelevant.

Dismissed, as if it was no big deal he killed Adaire. Grandmama stands to leave like church is over, the sermon is finished, and there's nothing more to be said or done. Not a stitch of anger—or care—on her face.

"Dismissed?" I scream. It's a mad, startling sound that jars the room quiet.

Everyone stares at me like I've lost my ever-loving mind. Maybe I have. Sheriff Johns regards me like a wild animal that got loose. My blood is boiling now. My feet carry me forward—they tend to do that right before I do something stupid.

I should have brought a knife.

Or Uncle Doug's pistol, if I had known where Aunt Violet hid it.

I take the cursed egg from the cup and grip it tight. The other hand searches for the little pouch in my purse.

"Unto thee what you have done!" The vehement rage and spit fly from my mouth. My dog finger—my cursing finger—fiercely points at Stone. He stumbles back as I climb over the bench.

He's too slow and too late.

My right hand swings out, cracking the egg as I slap his face with it. The other hand slings out the bag of power; tiny rosehip hairs fly, a mist into his eyes.

It's a hard crunch when my cheek smacks the courtroom's wood floor. Sheriff Johns's aftershave and cigarette breath assaults my nose as he pins me down. "Damn it, girl, I told you not to do something you'd regret." A knee pushes into my back as he yanks my arms behind me. Metal cuffs zip-click around my wrists.

"You bastard!" I buck and fight against the hands holding me down. "You'll pay for what you did! You'll fucking pay!"

Like a ray of sunshine, I get one small peek at Stone's face as the sheriff yanks me to my feet and shoves me out of the room.

Bloodred from the chicken egg oozes down his cheek and stains that expensive white shirt of his. The rot of it putrefying the air. Stone rubs fiercely at his eyes, screaming from the burn.

May death fall upon your house.