Girls of Brackenhill(75)

“I know. I can’t ask for it. I can barely bring myself to say it. But on this, I have to. Things are . . . unraveling. Something’s happened, and I’m afraid for us.” Pause. “It’s Fae.”

This time Hannah laughed for real. “That’s ridiculous.”

Julia stepped into the room, her face visible in the full moonlight. Stricken. Pale. Terrified.

Hannah almost felt something for her. Almost.

“I know it seems that way to you. Aunt Fae killed someone. I can’t explain it all right now, but I know it’s true. I confronted her, and she flipped out and screamed at me. We aren’t safe here. I have to tell someone. I have to tell the police.” She took a deep breath and continued, her voice small. “Will you come with me?”

“What? No.”

Her sister was a liar. There was no way Hannah was getting involved in going to the police over something her sister had invented. Besides, Julia had spent the whole summer ignoring Hannah. Why should Hannah do anything for her?

“I’m going with or without you. I’m telling the police everything I know.”

Hannah felt a stab of fear. “Then what will happen?” she whispered.

“They’ll come arrest Aunt Fae and maybe Uncle Stuart. They aren’t good people, Hannah. You have to know that.”

“Then what happens to us?” Hannah pressed, her voice pitching higher.

“We’ll go home, I’m sure.”

“Home. Like to Plymouth.”

In the moonlight, Julia nodded. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know you love it here, but you don’t know everything.”

“That’s because you haven’t spoken to me all fucking summer!” Hannah let it loose. Her blood rushed in her veins, and her temples throbbed. Her sister was going to ruin everything.

“I’m sorry, Han. I love you.” Her voice was desperate, pleading, her cheeks pinked and shiny.

Her sister had ruined Wyatt.

Her sister was going to ruin Brackenhill.

Her sister was going to ruin Fae and Stuart.

Hannah would not be made to leave. She would not go back to Plymouth a minute early. What waited for her there? The creak of a bedroom door. A cold hand on her thigh. The smell of cigarettes and beer.

When Hannah said nothing, Julia sighed. She turned to leave and paused at the door. “I have to go. I hope you understand.”

And she was gone.

August 2, 2002, 4:42 a.m.

Hannah woke up in the courtyard. She was in her nightgown, but she wore sneakers. The hem of her nightgown was soaking wet. She’d been crying.

In the dream she’d followed Julia down the path, a sick pulse in her head. A rage she hadn’t known existed had seemed to burn her from the inside out. Her hands had clenched in fists.

The sky was inky blue, a streak of purple dawn along the horizon.

She missed her sister. The sister of summers past, when they’d been partners. Best friends. Confidantes. Her shoulders racked with sobs, tears and snot on her face, as she stumbled inside and up the stairs and crawled back into her bed.

She was just so goddamn tired.

Later she’d remember Julia standing between their bedroom doors, her hair tangled. Dirt and tears streaked tracks down her face, her mouth open like she was a trout from the Beaverkill, eyes wide and glassy.

“Hannah, please,” she’d said.

When Hannah blinked, she was gone.





CHAPTER FIFTY

Now

Wyatt left Hannah in the greenhouse with a promise to come back later for the truck. “I need a forensic team. Again.” He sighed when he said it, and Hannah felt the need to apologize.

Back at the house, Hannah rattled around, restless. She opened and closed the kitchen drawers, looking for what, she didn’t know. Just looking. In the drawer under the sink she found the fleur-de-lis key. Huck must have put it back before he’d left. She tucked it into her sweatshirt pocket. There had to be a door it opened somewhere, right?

She pulled out a cutting board and began peeling carrots for dinner, tossing pieces to Rink on the floor. He loved carrots. Hannah wanted to make soup. Something to warm her from the inside. She didn’t know what she was doing anymore. She thought of Huck back at their condo in Virginia. The white, clean kitchen. Stainless steel appliances. Hardwood floors. Cream and neutral throw rugs. Everything modern and styled and bright and functional. It seemed like another life, belonging to another person. The shape of her had changed—she no longer fit in that house. She imagined herself there, dirty as a chimney sweep. Here felt better, like home. Damp and musty and dark.

Alice appeared in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen. She had a peculiar look on her face, questioning.

“Was that Detective McCarran again?” she asked, her voice strangled and reedy.

“Alice,” Hannah asked warily. “What do you know about Stuart’s truck?”

“What about it?”

“Who had access to it? Have you seen anyone drive it?” And then, even though she knew the answer, “Who it belonged to?”

“Fae told me once it belonged to her ex-husband,” Alice said, her bird nose starting to twitch. “And no, I have no idea who has driven it. I wouldn’t think it’s been moved since he got sick. I never saw Fae drive it. Why are you asking?”