Girls of Brackenhill(74)

Hannah must have looked horrified, because Wyatt touched her arm. “I’m telling you this for two reasons. First, Reggie is on leave. We were able to run DNA on the fetal bones. Reggie was the father.”

Hannah’s hand flew to her mouth. Reggie and Ellie? Well, what did she really know, anyway? So much must have happened between September and June that Hannah knew nothing about. Just a regular reminder that the summers that had meant so much to her had been so transient and fleeting to all the others. Including Wyatt? She didn’t know.

She did know that Reggie had been a creep of a teenager, and it seemed like he’d taken that into adulthood. “Is he a suspect?”

“I can’t tell you that,” Wyatt said evenly. “But even if he isn’t, he’s too close to this case, and finding out his child . . . well, there is some expected trauma, that’s all. Plus he has his own family now.”

Wyatt rocked back on his heels, letting her absorb the information. He took a deep breath and continued. “But more important to you specifically, once we identified the remains as Ellie, we were able to subpoena prenatal records. She’d been to see a doctor. She was pretty far along.”

“Okay,” Hannah said.

“The records were from August 2001. Do you understand?” he asked.

She did. Ellie was pregnant in 2001 and killed while pregnant. That meant she’d incontrovertibly died in 2001. It didn’t change the fact that Hannah saw Ellie a whole year later, all that summer and on August 1, 2002, the night Julia disappeared. That she saw them leave together and never come back.

Hannah had never allowed herself to consider that any of the mysticism she’d experienced at Brackenhill was real. She’d pushed away the instinct, the creak, click of the doors at Brackenhill, the basement maze shifting rooms almost in front of her eyes, the feeling of being watched, of never being alone. Hannah had rationalized waking up all over the grounds: in the woods, the basement, Ruby’s room, the river. She’d brushed aside that the hair on the back of her neck stood up or the way Ellie had made her feel all those years ago: vulnerable and afraid. She’d scoffed at Jinny with her potions and her crystal balls and her smudges. Even when Hannah saw Julia in the vision, she’d made excuses for it. She was tired. She was stressed. The vision hadn’t been real; her sister hadn’t been in pain. Her sister hadn’t been pounding on a door, blood on her fists. Her sister hadn’t died in horror. And yet.

Ellie had worn a black skirt and red flutter top and high heels. It was the same outfit as the night in the courtyard. The same outfit she’d seen her in that whole last summer—how could Hannah not have noticed?

But Ellie had been real, at least to Julia and now to Hannah. Ellie had been as real as earth and soil and river and stone.

It was possible that she just hadn’t been alive.





CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Then

August 2, 2002, 12:30 a.m.

It sounded like rain on her window. Faint, pebbly, but lacking the rhythm of a summer storm. Hannah’s eyes opened, blurry, then focused on the ceiling, the intricate medallion that encircled the chandelier, visible only by the moonlight streaming through her bedroom windows.

Pat-pat-pat-pat-pat, sounding like a spray from a hose. Or pebbles.

Pebbles.

Hannah rushed to the window, pushed the heavy wood casement out, and stuck her head outside into the humid night air.

Wyatt.

“What are you doing?” she snapped. His hair curled on his forehead, and he wore a rumpled T-shirt and mesh shorts.

“I’m sorry. I’m a jerk. Can we just talk?” he stage-whispered.

“Go away, Wyatt. You’ve done enough.” Hannah felt the ache in her chest. The vision of Julia’s red nails curled around Wyatt’s hair flashed in her mind, and she felt sick, her throat constricted. She pulled the window in and had started to latch it shut when she saw Julia, her blonde head appearing below.

“Hannah, wait!” Julia called, and Hannah paused. “Just come down and talk to him. I didn’t know, okay?”

“Whatever. You guys can have each other.”

“Please just come down? I want to talk to you too.”

“Why, so you can both act like I’m a child? A crazy kid with a puppy-dog crush? No thanks, both of you.” Hannah pulled the window shut, latched it tight, and crawled back into bed, pulling the coverlet to her chin. Below, she heard the faint murmuring of voices and felt sick. Would they just pick up where they’d left off?

She imagined them below, kissing, Wyatt caressing Julia’s face and her back the way he used to touch Hannah. She pulled her legs up to her chin and moaned. Why did they call it heartbreak? She felt like her whole body was breaking.

A creak on the staircase, and suddenly Julia stood there, between their rooms. Looking uncertain. Beautiful. Hannah hated her. She wanted to claw at her sister’s face. Imagined leaving a scratch with her nails, deep and red, that would later turn to a purple scar. She wouldn’t be the beautiful one; she’d be the ruined one.

“Hannah.” Her voice floated through the darkness, and Hannah’s stomach coiled. “I have to go to the police, okay?”

Hannah sat up, narrowed her eyes. “What? Why?”

“There’s so much you don’t know, but I need you to trust me.”

Hannah let out a laugh. “What?”