Girls of Brackenhill(26)
She was puttering around the kitchen, putting away breakfast dishes, killing time until she had to go to the funeral home for one last meeting. Waiting to find out the outcome of the excavation that was still going on outside. Huck had taken Rink out for a walk, this time toward the greenhouse, down the path that eventually led to town.
“Hey.” Wyatt’s entrance had been soundless, and Hannah startled, let out a small yelp. He laughed. “Sorry about that.” She was relieved to see he came alone this time. Reggie made her uneasy, more on edge than she already was.
“You scared me half to death.”
“I’m sorry.” Wyatt’s voice was low, bemused. But his eyebrows creased in concern. “I just wanted to let you know we found the rest of the remains. It’s a fairly complete skeleton, buried about ten feet from the embankment.”
Hannah’s hand went to her throat, and she found she couldn’t speak, couldn’t react. “Is it . . . ?” She couldn’t finish the thought, the sentence. She felt the tears welling, her throat closing up, and held a fist to her mouth to physically stop herself from crying out. It all felt too raw, on top of last night’s dream and probable bout of sleepwalking (Huck said it was normal under stress), but the whole day had felt surreal.
“We don’t know, Han.” Wyatt’s voice cracked. All the emotion she’d been holding at bay came rushing up. The night of the fight, the night Julia had run away. Hannah’s anger at Julia, her fury at Wyatt, her hurt—she’d felt like a caged animal, lashing out. Wyatt misjudged the look on her face and said, “I never got to apologize, Han. For the way everything ended. I never thought I’d see you again.”
“Did you ever look? The internet exists now.” Hannah felt rage like a spark off a flint: capable of growing to a full-blown inferno. She didn’t want to talk about this now but couldn’t let it just drop, not if Wyatt was going to press his thumb right to the burn—and it felt like a burn: open and exposed, raw.
“I did, yeah. But it affected me too. You know? Julia running out and just disappearing? And then when they found her purse. Everyone just said she died.” He looked around the room, at a loss for words, and finally settled his gaze back on her. When their eyes met, she felt the pain right under her sternum. He continued, his voice a whisper, “I was only eighteen. I was a kid too.”
Hannah closed her eyes, shook her head, held up her hand. She didn’t want to do this now, with the remains looming over them. With the possibility that her sister would finally be found, put to rest. Finally, she said, “How will we know. If it’s Julia?” Her mouth stuck over Julia’s name, and she was embarrassed by how close she felt to crying.
He cleared his throat. “Well, if you knew the name of your dentist in Plymouth, that would help a lot. In 2002, we would have taken her DNA off a toothbrush or hairbrush, I think. At least I’d hope. But dental identification is still the fastest. DNA might take a week; dental records could take a day or two. Even with teeth missing—”
“Okay, enough, please.” Hannah, eyes still closed, held up a hand.
“I’m sorry.” Then, softer, “I am really sorry, Hannah.”
“I can get you the name in a bit. I’d have to do a quick internet search—I haven’t been back to Plymouth in years. I know they were on Washburn Street.” Hannah straightened her back, squared her shoulders, and took a deep, shaky breath. She was going for businesslike when she said, “I hope that works for you.”
He considered her. His mouth opened and closed before he finally said, “You look beautiful, Hannah.”
Hannah felt her insides slide together, felt her body go boneless. Aunt Fae, Uncle Stuart, the dream, the bones, the excavation, Wyatt, Huck. It was all too much, and she didn’t know she’d broken down until Wyatt had his arms around her and she realized she was sobbing, and she covered her face with her hands and just let herself weep, in a way she hadn’t wept since she was a child. Wyatt smelled the same, and suddenly she was fourteen again, against the concession stand, the splinters in her back, the relentless pulse between her legs, and she stretched up on her bare toes and clung to him, her arms around his neck, his body foreign and familiar, and her vision blurred from the tears, and her body felt alive with sensation, all the synapses in her brain firing at once, her nerve endings on fire. She felt like she was falling apart and being put back together all at the same time. Wyatt’s hand stroked her back, and he pulled her tighter, and she wondered if she was having the same effect on him, if his body felt charged, like his skin alone was burning.
She couldn’t stop crying.
She broke out of Wyatt’s embrace, aware suddenly that the air between them had changed. She stepped back, pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to stem the flow, but tears kept leaking out anyway. It was frustrating to not have control of one’s own body.
“God, I’m so sorry,” she blubbered, stepping back even farther, away from Wyatt, who looked shocked and pained and something undefinable.
“Please don’t be sorry, Han. Please.” His voice was throaty, hoarse.
Hannah leaned forward against the countertop, hands bracing her weight at the sink, her head down, breathing deep. She felt Wyatt’s eyes on her. He strode across the room, plucked the tissue box from the counter, and brought it to her. She wiped her face, her nose.