Girls of Brackenhill(69)
“We think there may be another car involved in Ms. Webster’s accident. We found paint transfer on her bumper, and the road marks suggest she was surprised to find herself out of control.”
“Would have had to be a bigger truck to take that risk then, yes?” Alice asked. “To run her off the road? You wouldn’t attempt that in a small car.”
“Yes, ma’am. We’re looking into who owns trucks in Rockwell. It’s almost everyone, unfortunately. Even you own a truck.”
“I do.” Alice’s eyes narrowed. “Would you like to look at it?” She gestured toward the driveway.
“I might on my way out, thank you.” Wyatt seemed unfazed by Alice’s sudden change in demeanor. But Hannah avoided her eyes, keenly aware of her judgment.
“Why would anyone want to kill Fae?” Alice asked, her hands splayed out before she let them fall to her sides.
Hannah knew why. The town had turned on Fae years ago; she was a witch. She and Jinny together, practicing devil worship. Somehow Jinny had escaped the widespread scorn. Fae had lived in a castle. She’d aged before their eyes and committed the ultimate sin of not caring. Her hair had grown long and gray like she’d deliberately fed into the gossip. She’d secured herself up on the hill, saying nothing, ignoring the chatter in town that called her a curse, a witch. That called the house a curse and, Hannah now realized, her family crazy. Hannah had always thought the people of Rockwell had blamed Fae for Julia without cause. But there had been a reason, even if Hannah had been unaware of it. If everyone but her had known that Ruby had existed and died, it shed new light on the way they’d viewed her. Everyone but Hannah had known that Fae’s family had inherited Brackenhill. That they had crazy in their bones. That girls went missing from Brackenhill as a regular pattern: Ruby, Ellie, Julia.
She hadn’t just killed Julia in their eyes. She was a serial murderer. A sick woman.
Who would kill someone like that? Well, just about anybody.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Now
The parking lot of Pinker’s was packed with mostly trucks. Ford F-150s and Chevy Silverados and smaller, older Toyotas with various letters missing (Toyta, Toota, Toyot) from the liftgate. Fae’s truck had been an old, rattling Ford Lightning from the late nineties. She’d rarely driven it into town, preferring to take their Volkswagen when she needed to go somewhere.
Hannah walked carefully around the lot. It was dusk, the sky lighting up with streaks of velvet purple. With her cell phone flashlight, she examined the front bumper of each and every truck in Pinker’s lot. Not a trace of paint on any of them. You’d think one of these drunks would periodically hit a fence on the way home.
“What you looking for now, sugar?” The words were drawn out, and Warren stood ten feet away from her, swaying slightly on his feet, arms folded across his chest. In his left hand, he flicked a cigarette.
Hannah stepped back out of his reach, and her heart picked up speed. He stood at least eight inches over her and could have leveled her with one meaty punch.
In his younger years, he would have been good looking. Now he looked worn, with an old flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows, his hair a mix of gray and black, greasy and slick. But she saw the handsome hiding under there. She tried to see what Fae had seen.
Wyatt would kill her if he knew she was here. Warren might kill her now. She remembered his menace, his hatred of her, evident in his face, the spit at the corners of his mouth, a visceral violence.
This time, he smiled. He looked her up and down, an exaggerated leer. She realized the parking lot, while full of cars, was deserted. Pinker’s pulsed with loud classic rock music; no one would hear her scream. Hannah palmed a small can of pepper spray and steadied her breathing.
“How did you and Fae meet?” she asked, and Warren raised his eyebrows, surprised. He didn’t seem drunk.
“In town. Went to different high schools, but our mothers knew each other. Saw her for the first time at the community center, sitting on a picnic table with her friends. She was a beauty. Like you.” He paused, smiled. “Like your sister too.”
Hannah felt the chill up her spine. What was she doing here?
“Did you kill Fae?”
The question was bold. Unformed in her mind before it was out of her mouth.
Instead of flying off into a rage, Warren tipped his head appraisingly. His voice was quiet, almost gleeful. “Well, I’ll be. You and McCarran a thing now, ain’t ya?”
Hannah felt her neck flush red. “No, of course not.”
“See, because he’s asked me that same question five times or so. Keeps at it, hoping if he hits me hard and long enough, something will shake out. I’ll fuck it all up. Warren the drunk, I guess. Can’t remember what he tells people, changes his story.” He walked into her space; Hannah could feel his breath on her cheek. “I got no reason to talk to you, but see, I was here. Thing about being the town drunk? Perfect alibi for every crime. Can’t pin it on me!” He threw his head back and laughed. He raised his arms to the sky and stumbled once before yelling, “Ask Pinker! I was here. All night. Every night, baby. Every fucking night of my life.”
He was still laughing as he climbed into the truck in front of her. The truck she’d been studying when Warren had caught her was his own. He started the engine, peeled away. Hannah watched the truck fishtail in the gravel and called Wyatt, left a message. “Warren just gunned it out of Pinker’s, probably drunk. Might want to get a guy on that.”