Girls of Brackenhill(73)

“That’s not what I said. It’s not an unreasonable path of investigation, that’s all.” Wyatt stepped toward her, placed his hands on the hood of the truck.

“He’s been saying for twenty years that he followed Ellie up to Brackenhill that night she left,” Hannah persisted. “He could have followed her, hit her here, buried her.”

“Hannah, we know.” Wyatt was gently reminding her that they had it under control. That anything she thought of would have already occurred to the police. To Wyatt. She was being treated like a petulant child. Hannah’s impatience flared.

“We should talk—” Wyatt started to say, his neck flushed.

“This truck belongs to Warren. I have the title back at the house,” Hannah said at the same time, remembering what she’d found only moments before and cutting Wyatt off. If he wanted to “talk,” Hannah did not. “It also has black paint transfer.” She gestured behind her. “And it’s been recently moved.” She hadn’t meant to cut him off, but now that it was out there, Wyatt’s eyes sparked in interest.

He cocked his head, seemingly impressed. “How can you tell?”

Hannah showed him the photo of the oil stains under the truck. One large, one small. Currently two distinct stains, but not for long. He whistled.

“How did Warren’s truck end up here?”

“I think Fae just took it when she left him. As far back as I can remember, they’ve had this truck. But I’m not sure. It might mean something . . . or nothing. Either way, Warren knows it’s here.”

“Who else had access to it?”

“Well, Warren, obviously. But the keys are in the visor, so theoretically anyone.”

“Who would know the keys are in the visor?” Wyatt murmured, more to himself.

“Everyone in Rockwell does that,” Hannah said, her voice tinged with bitterness. Small-town mentalities and habits she’d shed long ago. She tried to envision her neighbors in Virginia, or Huck, leaving the car unlocked, never mind the keys inside. Ridiculous. They locked the car doors in their own driveway, their house doors when they were home. They had doorstep cameras. She lived a more deliberate, less carefree life. Arguably more considered. Did that equal happier? It should have.

“We’ll get it tested. I’ll get it towed today,” Wyatt said decisively. “It’s fairly simple to figure out if the paint matches Fae’s truck. From there, we can process the interior: DNA, fingerprints, that kind of thing.”

Wyatt retrieved his cell phone and called the state police, asking for a forensic team and a tow truck. He turned away from her, and she could only hear snatches, irritated bursts of the conversation.

“They can’t come out until tomorrow. Downside of small towns: we’re at the mercy of the state police. The state lab is busy; this is a lower-priority case. Unfortunately.”

“Why is it lower priority?” Hannah asked.

“The possible crime is several weeks old. Could be a hit-and-run. It’s not a blatant murder. Missing persons are the highest on the list—it’s a ticking clock. It makes sense, but still . . .” Wyatt splayed his hands helplessly.

“I just don’t understand why it’s taking so long to determine if it was an accident or if someone did this to her.” Hannah balled her fists, frustrated.

“It’s not that simple. They had to do a full investigation on her truck, which was demolished. Make sure, as much as possible, that everything was working properly at the time of the crash—brake lines weren’t cut and whatnot—collect and test paint transfer, and it wasn’t until the results started coming back that we thought it might be something other than an accident. You have no idea where your aunt was going? We think she was going pretty fast.”

Hannah shook her head. Wyatt had been keeping after her for weeks now—Are you sure you haven’t spoken to your aunt and uncle recently? Did he think she was lying?

“Well, it sucks,” Hannah finished for him, and he nodded in agreement.

Wyatt shifted, his reluctance to leave a clue. His fisted hands were shoved into his jeans pockets, and he scanned the horizon behind her, his eyes unfocused.

There was something else, Hannah realized. Another fact to relay, another bomb to drop. He’d done it enough times in the past few weeks—hell, the past few minutes—for her to know what it looked like when he was stalling. Looking for the words.

“Remember how you thought you saw Ellie in 2002? The year that Julia disappeared?”

“I didn’t think I saw her; I’m sure I saw her—all summer long. The night Julia went missing, in fact. I’m not crazy, Wyatt.” She took a deep breath. “You saw her too.”

“I didn’t, Hannah, and I don’t think you’re crazy. Just hear me out.” He sighed. “She was definitely pregnant at the time of death. Pretty far along, at least over thirty weeks. Have you ever heard of the term coffin birth?”

Hannah shook her head. A wave of nausea swept over her.

“It’s pretty gruesome, I know. But when a pregnant woman dies, sometimes the baby is expelled after death. We found fetal bones in Ellie’s grave. Some were inside the pelvic region, some outside the body. Which suggests a partial coffin birth. She was not buried with a small child; she was definitively pregnant when she was buried. You can also tell by the pelvic bones if she’d given birth alive. She hadn’t.”