Rebekkah accepted the flask with a shaky snot-and-tear-wet hand. She took a small sip and coughed as a burn spread from her throat to her stomach.

“You’re not blood, but you’re mine the same as she was.” Maylene stood up and took the flask back. “More so, now.”

She held up the flask like she was making a toast and said, “From my lips to your ears, you old bastard.” She squeezed Rebekkah’s hand as she swallowed the whiskey. “She’s been well loved and will be still.”

Then she looked at Rebekkah and held the flask out.

Silently, Rebekkah took a second sip.

“If anything happens to me, you mind her grave and mine the first three months. Just like when you go with me, you take care of the graves.” Maylene looked fierce. Her grip on Rebekkah’s hand tightened. “Promise me.”

“I promise.” Rebekkah’s heartbeat sped. “Are you sick?”

“No, but I’m an old lady.” She let go of Rebekkah’s hand and reached down to touch Ella. “I thought you and Ella Mae would ...” Maylene shook her head. “I need you, Rebekkah.”

Rebekkah shivered. “Okay.”

“Three sips for safety. No more. No less.” Maylene held out the silver flask for the third time. “Three on your lips at the burial. Three at the soil for three months. You hear?”

Rebekkah nodded and took her third sip of the stuff.

Maylene leaned down to kiss Ella’s forehead. “You sleep now. You hear me?” she whispered. “Sleep well, baby girl, and stay where I put you.”

Rebekkah was still clutching the phone when it rang. She looked at the readout: it was Maylene’s area code, but not either of her numbers. “Maylene?”

A man said, “Rebekkah Barrow?”

“Yes.”

“Rebekkah, I need you to sit down,” he said. “Are you sitting?”

“Sure,” she lied. Her palms were sweating. “Mr. Montgomery? Is this ...” Her words faded.