And now he was here, standing in front of her, acting as though their parting had been normal.
“I’m a cop, yes.” He exhaled. “I wasn’t expecting you. I don’t know who I thought would be here, but I assumed Fae had other relatives.”
“No. There’s no one. Just me.” Hannah squared her shoulders and forced herself to meet his eyes, hold them, until he looked away.
He eyed the grand tympanum above him, then the foyer beyond her, until he settled his gaze back on Hannah.
She felt her pulse in her throat, and Hannah held the door wide. “Come in, please.”
Behind Wyatt, another man stood, hands in pockets.
“Hello, Hannah,” he said, and it took a moment before it registered.
“Hello, Reggie,” Hannah said, formal and stiff. Reggie Plume looked the same. Didn’t anyone age around here? Was the Beaverkill a fountain of youth?
“We’re partners now,” Wyatt explained, and Hannah barked a laugh. Rockwell stayed the same. Everything stayed exactly the same.
Inside, Hannah remembered Alice, whom she’d left crying. She led Wyatt and Reggie through the foyer, the hall, and the sitting room and into the grand dining room. Behind her, she heard Wyatt mutter, “Jesus.” As far as she knew, he had never been to Brackenhill in the daytime. Only at night and only once. But it had been a very long time.
She motioned toward the dining table for the men to sit. “Do you want a cup of tea? Coffee?”
“No thanks, Hannah.” Wyatt cleared his throat, and she wished he’d stop saying her name. It sent a current through her every single time, a single pulse of electricity up her spine. Reggie stood behind him, silent, taking it all in. He’d never been to Brackenhill. She could see his mind working, his eyes darting around the jumbled furnishings that at first glance seemed opulent.
“I just have to ask you some questions, okay?” Wyatt asked gently.
“About what?” Hannah said.
“Fae Webster’s car accident.” Wyatt cleared his throat again. “It’s mostly a routine investigation, but there are some . . . inconsistencies.”
“What does that mean?” Hannah asked.
“Let’s just sit down,” Reggie said, his voice still smooth. Lilting. Meant to be calming, but something about it set Hannah on edge.
“You’re not in a uniform,” Hannah said to Wyatt, stupidly, and wanted to pull the words back immediately.
“No. I’m a detective. I cover the whole county, but it’s not that populated, so it’s fine.” Wyatt pulled out a chair and seated himself to the right of the table head.
“Okay, let me get Alice.”
“Alice?” Reggie asked and cocked his head to the side. Wyatt withdrew a small recorder from his interior pocket.
“She’s the hospice nurse but probably Fae’s closest friend.” Hannah had no idea if this was true. She should have known who her aunt’s friends were, shouldn’t she? She was suddenly aware of how odd her time after Brackenhill would seem to others. The complete excommunication, Fae’s silence. It could read like anger, and Hannah didn’t want to reinforce the notion that Fae was responsible for Julia’s disappearance.
There had been a fair amount of suspicion thrown on Aunt Fae and Uncle Stuart at the time, or at least that was what her mother had said. “Everyone thinks they did it” had been her exact words, but Hannah could never be sure who “they” were in either case. Had it been the police or just town gossip? She remembered asking her mother, “Well, did they?” Maybe to get a rise out of her, something besides that listless presence, the relentless clucking of her tongue at every little thing that went wrong (dropped plate, spilled water glass, missing daughter).
Her mother had fixed her with a stare, uncomprehending, eyes narrowed. Finally, she’d said, “Of course not.” But she’d said it softly, whispered, as though trying to convince herself. Hannah had taken pity on her, told her, “Ma, she ran away. I saw her leave. She’ll be back. She and Fae had a fight.” But there had been nothing on the bus station cameras. No cash missing from Aunt Fae or Uncle Stuart, and certainly no credit cards missing. Where would she have gone with no money at all? Her mother had mouthed the word fight before wandering listlessly back to her bedroom, her head shaking.
It was shocking how many people simply vanished into thin air. No body, no indication of a purposeful disappearance, little evidence of foul play. Their cases remained open, files gathering dust on the desks of grizzled detectives, or perhaps passed on to rookies years later. Or even more common, relegated to cardboard boxes in station basements. Scant bags of evidence jumbled in with other bags of evidence until all that was left was rumor and suspicion and diner chatter that, in the absence of a newspaper headline, became fact.
Alice sat opposite Wyatt—did Hannah have to call him Detective McCarran?—and Hannah took the seat between them at the head of the enormous dining table. Reggie rested his back against the wall, a spectator. Hannah wondered if Wyatt always took the lead on their cases—was he the senior? She couldn’t remember who was the older of the two when they had been boys, always together.
The dining chairs were throne style, high-backed and ornately carved walnut, with red leather seats, and Wyatt had studied them before sitting down.
“It was all inherited,” Hannah needlessly explained. “Fae would have lived in a box. All she needed was her garden.” She felt compelled to paint her in this light: wonderful, warm, simple. She had been those things when Hannah was fifteen, but as she kept reminding herself, she had no idea who Fae had become once Hannah had left.
“She was very humble.” Alice jumped in, her eyes tearing again.
Wyatt clicked a button on the recorder and opened a notebook. He asked the basic questions: names, ages, relationship to victim. Victim. The word sat in Hannah’s mouth like sour milk.
“Married?” Wyatt was looking at Hannah, unblinking. His expression remained unchanged. Hannah wondered if the question was truly standard.
“Engaged,” Hannah nearly whispered, and next to her, Alice said, “Yes.”
“When was the last time either of you saw Fae Webster?”
Alice said, “Two days ago.”
Hannah paused and then said, “2002.”
Wyatt finally reacted, snapping his head up and holding Hannah’s gaze. “Really?” He seemed to not believe her.
It was amazing how much he looked the same: same freckled skin, reddish-brown hair, but with a hint of graying around the temples—and what was it about gray that made men sexier? His hands, as he wrote, looked like his eighteen-year-old hands. She didn’t chastise herself for noticing his lack of wedding ring, but she should have. And just like that, a man she wouldn’t let herself think about for seventeen years was insistently, steadfastly here, to occupy her thoughts for the next however many days until she could get back home, with Huck—Huck! For a moment she’d forgotten about him—and Rink and her life, her real life. Her simple, predictable real life.
“Really,” she finally said.
Alice stood, and Wyatt and Hannah looked up, the spell broken.
“I have to go to my next appointment, if that’s all? Maybe we could continue this later?” She was brusque, done with both of them. “They’re expecting me”—she checked her watch—“a half hour ago.”