“Hannah, please,” Aunt Fae said, sighing. “Will you please just lower your voice?”
Julia, Aunt Fae, her mother. Everyone had a habit of sighing her name instead of saying it.
Aunt Fae turned and left then, her heavy footsteps in the hall and then the steps down.
“Yeah, well, Julia rode her bike into town!” Hannah called after her, which admittedly wasn’t helping her “Julia left the shoe” cause.
“That’s enough, Hannah!” Aunt Fae called back up to her.
It was always enough; that was the problem with Hannah.
She was so busy being angry with Julia that she never stopped to ask herself why Aunt Fae cared so damn much about the shoe in the first place.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Now
Hannah rolled the small canister of pepper spray between her thumb and forefinger and tucked it into her jeans pocket. The brown house next to the old railroad station. Looks like kindling.
The siding on the brown house was asbestos shakes, cracked and broken, hanging in some cases by a single tacked corner. The upstairs window was broken and covered with cardboard and duct tape. The porch, its middle sunken and uneven, creaked under Hannah’s weight.
She knocked, hesitantly at first, then increasing in volume and pressure until she was pounding on the door. She was crazy to be here, at Warren Turnbull’s house.
Then why was she here? She didn’t know. Rattling around the house, waiting to hear from hospice centers, trying to avoid Alice, and skulking around like a living version of a Brackenhill ghost was making Hannah crazy. All Huck wanted to do was read or cook or walk in the woods, and if she spent too much time with him, he’d start asking when they could leave.
Besides, Hannah was following the next logical step in what felt like a rogue investigation into her sister’s disappearance, her aunt’s possible murder, and the unknown remains in the forest. The only clue she had was Warren Turnbull, so here she was. Had he and Aunt Fae kept in touch? Why wouldn’t he divorce her? Huck would have told her, in no uncertain terms, that this was a bad idea. Warren was possibly violent, evil—what had Jinny called him? “Devoid of soul.” Well, so what? She worked in advertising.
“You won’t find Warren there, if that’s who you’re looking for.” The voice behind her was thin, reedy, and Hannah turned, her hand at her throat.
The woman was old, maybe in her eighties, and stood on the street with her hands on her hips. The closest house was a hundred feet away, a small gray peeling saltbox down the alley. From where Hannah stood, she could see the front screen hanging open, a black-and-white cat watching them.
“Why’s that?” Hannah asked, her hand dropped to her side, a throb traveling up her arm.
“He’s at Pinker’s down the river.” The woman shook her head. “Spends all day there and has for . . .” She looked up at the sky, calculating, then back at Hannah. “Over twenty years, I’d say.”
“Do you know Warren well?” Hannah took a step toward her, her eyes narrowing.
“Sure, this is Rockwell. We all know each other well. All our stories, all our tragedies. But I know Warren better than most.” She eyed Hannah suspiciously, took in her jeans, her denim button-down, the thin purse slung over her shoulder. “You’re not a cop or something, are ya? He hasn’t done anything, has he?”
“No, I’m not a cop. I don’t know if he’s done anything. I wanted to talk to him about . . .” Hannah stopped, her voice fading. What exactly? Aunt Fae, sure. Ruby? Their marriage? Stupid to come without a plan, walking right into violence and rage and pure evil, according to Jinny, who could be powerfully persuasive. But also, a voice in her head whispered, a tad dramatic.
“About what?” Then realization dawned. “Fae Webster?”
It was Hannah’s turn to be suspicious. “How’d you know that?”
“Rockwell, dear. Fae dies; a stranger bangs on her Warren’s door a week later. I ain’t always the brightest bulb—and sometimes I play dumb just to mind my own beeswax, you know—but this one was a gimme.” She approached Hannah, studied her face. “You’re one of those nieces, ain’t ya. The one that didn’t get killed.”
“She ran away,” Hannah replied automatically, her heart at a standstill.
“Uh-huh. We’ve had a million of ’em. Runaways from this town. Mostly they come back. Did your sister ever come back?”
“No.” The lump in Hannah’s throat grew—she felt choked by it.
“Well then.” The woman nodded once as if that were settled then. “Do you want to come down for tea?”
“Tea?” Hannah repeated, dim witted and slow.
“Sure. You want to know about Warren. I’m an old biddy with nothing but time and no one who cares about all the gossip I know.” She winked then. Hannah realized she was a bit younger than she’d thought, maybe seventies. She was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. In her hands she twisted a pair of gardening gloves. “Besides, Warren is my cousin.”
The saltbox was not shabby, like Hannah had first thought, but well maintained. Gray and white. The inside was dated but pleasantly clean and knickknack-free. The kitchen was bright with sunlight, the cabinets light wood and white and the Formica countertop gleaming. The house smelled like Pledge and cookies.
The woman busied herself with the teapot, and Hannah watched her buzz around the kitchen, withdrawing mugs, tea bags, sugar, milk.
“I’m Hannah,” she finally said.
“Oh dear, how rude. I’m Lila Yardley. I’ve lived here in Rockwell all my life. This house was the house I grew up in. I know everything there is to know about everyone.” She set all the fixings down on the table and poured them each a cup of tea, dunking a Lipton tea bag in each cup. “So you’re the sister, then? Not the one who was killed?”
“She ran away.” Hannah busied herself with milk and a spoon. “I guess to some it looks like I did too. It was too hard . . . after. And even now, it’s hard.”
“Well, sure. You were a child.” She shook her head, tsked as she stirred.
“Do you know anything about my sister, if you know everyone and everything?” Hannah asked it tongue in cheek but found herself holding her breath anyway.
“Not a thing, darling.” Lila reached out, her hand dry and warm on Hannah’s. “I know the old-old stuff and the new-new stuff, but the years after Fae moved up the mountain? Nothing. I know she had a daughter who died. Tragic. She kept to herself mostly. The child hadn’t started school, and Fae wasn’t the mommy-and-me-class kind of mother. People in town talked, of course. Called her eccentric, witchy. Silly, stupid things. I hated all that.”
“You didn’t believe she was a witch? Or she was cursed?” Hannah searched her memory for what the kids had said to her all those years ago. She hadn’t known why. They’d never told her about Ruby, probably assuming she and Julia had known.
“I always felt so bad for her. Fae was a child herself when she married Warren, had no idea what she was getting herself into. I thought when she got away from him, her life would get better, not worse.”
“Why did she marry him?” Hannah wondered aloud. Who would marry an angry, abusive drunk? The only way was if he didn’t use to be that way. If life had ruined him. Had he started drinking because of Aunt Fae? Had Aunt Fae and Uncle Stuart’s affair turned Warren mean?