Girls of Brackenhill(59)

“Who was Ellie’s mother, then?” Hannah whispered.

“Not your aunt. Ellie’s mother was, and is, a druggie. Last I heard, she was in jail. You leave her out of this.” He didn’t look at Hannah when he said it, his lip curled.

“What’s her name, if it’s not Fae?” Hannah still wasn’t sure what she was getting at, but she was getting more information from Warren when she pissed him off than when she played nice. Warren fixed his gaze on her, his eyes widening with anger. Hannah felt his growing rage across the small space between them and regretted this line of questioning, this intrusion, but she was so close. Too close. He wasn’t going to answer her. Hannah took a breath and pressed on. “Ellie was what, eleven when Ruby died? But for the first year of Ruby’s life, she lived with you and Ellie. Didn’t Ellie miss her?”

“She was ten.” Warren turned his gaze back to his now-full glass, stirring the ice with two dirty fingers.

Ten.

Hannah felt the click of another piece of the puzzle. Stuart’s nonsense mumbling: She was ten . . . it was an accident. The realization sudden and lurching. “Warren.” What if she was wrong? She had nothing to lose. “Ellie was there, wasn’t she? The day Ruby died.”

Warren stood up so fast the barstool behind him crashed to the ground. His hand circled Hannah’s arm roughly, enough to leave a bruise, his breath smelling like liquor and cigarettes and decay. “Ellie had nothing to do with that little girl’s death, and your bitch of an aunt saying so for twenty years never amounted to anything either. You need to go the fuck home. Before you end up in the ravine too.” Hannah’s heart hammered, but she squared her shoulders, held his gaze.

He shoved her. Hannah stumbled but didn’t fall. A man at the far end of the bar stood up, called, “Hey!” But Warren would have easily towered over him, and he only took one half-hearted step in their direction. The few patrons scattered along the bar stopped to look at the commotion.

Warren leaned into her face. He was over six feet tall, and she’d greatly underestimated his strength. He walked her back against the bar, the wood rough against her palms. His face inches from hers, his eyes manic.

“Get out,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “Don’t ever come back here spouting that bullshit. Don’t ever come back at all, you hear me? I’ll give you one warning. I see your ass in Rockwell again, asking questions like this, I’ll kill you myself.”

“Bull.” The warning from across the room came from the bartender, and it took Hannah a moment to realize it was a nickname: bull. Bull. Warren stood fully upright, sat back in his barstool.

Hannah left, her legs wobbling. She kept her back straight as she walked through the door and into the sunlight. She would not look afraid.

She might be terrified, but Julia had taught her that. Even if you are shaking on the inside, you are a goddamn rock on the outside.





CHAPTER FORTY

Then

July 25, 2002

Julia had always been formidable. People didn’t want to cross her. No one wanted to piss her off, feel that cool chill that came off her like a stench when she was mad.

And yet somehow, without trying, Hannah felt like all she did was piss her sister off lately. She tried to talk to her about the ghosts Julia claimed to see or feel. About the baby-shoe prank. About riding into town alone. But Julia would just shrug.

Then she’d take her bike and ride into town alone.

Hannah didn’t know whether or not to tell Aunt Fae. On one hand, it seemed to be the only thing keeping her sister from calling their mother and demanding they come home. On the other, if Julia got herself killed, they’d definitely have to go home.

Hannah had been spending so much of her time in the library. The ceiling-high shelves stocked with old, musty books that she had never even heard of: Pride and Prejudice, Anna Karenina, Love in the Time of Cholera. She’d tried to read some of them, but mostly she’d fall asleep. She still wasn’t sleeping well, and she wasn’t having nightmares, exactly, just dreams of wandering the halls of the castle. She woke up this morning standing in the kitchen. This never happened at home, and it was unsettling. Scary, even. And it was even more frightening that she couldn’t talk to Julia about it.

Hannah hated to admit it, but Julia was right. Aunt Fae and Uncle Stuart were different this summer. They were quieter, more solemn. Uncle Stuart hadn’t even pulled a quarter out of her ear yet. He didn’t always come to dinner, sometimes staying in his greenhouse long after sunset, potting herbs under the bright fluorescent lights.

Without warning, there was screaming coming from the hallway.

Julia and Aunt Fae. Fighting!

Hannah bolted upright, crept quickly to the doorway, but stayed back, out of view.

“You cannot break into rooms that are locked! That is not allowed. If I find you in that room again, I’ll send you both home!” Aunt Fae was madder than Hannah had ever heard her.

“What secrets are you keeping from us?” Julia shouted back, her voice loud. Righteous.

“You are a child. I’m an adult. I can keep anything from you that I want. You are a guest in my house. This is my house.” Aunt Fae’s voice lowered, menacing.

“What if I don’t want to stay here . . . with a liar?” A pause. Then, quieter, “Or worse?”