“My aunt, Fae Webster.”
He looked up; his mouth opened. She’d surprised him. “What the fuck you want to know about her?”
“You were married? How long?” Hannah was on thin ice, reckless, her hands shaking.
“Five years. But technically, still married.” He took a long drink.
“Why wouldn’t you give her a divorce?”
“None of your goddamn business.” His anger flashed again, then settled. The bartender glanced up, and Hannah made eye contact with him. He was vaguely familiar. “You wanna hear about that? How she fucked her teacher? She decided to go back to college, and I was stupid enough at the time to be proud of her. She got a scholarship. Something about architecture and history. Wanted to learn about old buildings or some shit like that. Inherited that fucking mansion and told me nothing about it.”
“Who did she inherit it from?”
“Her aunt. Apparently, the woman went crazy, ended up in a sanatorium. Willed everything to Fae, nothing to her sister when she died.” Realization dawned in his eyes. “That’s your mama, in’t it? Things’d turn out a bit differently if your mama had gotten that big old mansion, don’t you think? Don’t it piss you off?” Warren’s face twisted into a grim smile. “Pissed me off for sure. Working like a dog on plumbing, for fuck’s sake. Basically, shit pipes, and she’s sitting on a golden egg, just rotting up there on the hill.”
Hannah felt the full throttle of childhood memories click into place: her mother’s bitterness at her sister, her aversion to Brackenhill overridden only by her desire to send her kids somewhere nice for the summer. Maybe get them away from her awful husband? Hannah didn’t know. It was a lot to take in, and her thoughts spun.
“Is that why she left you? Because of Brackenhill?” Hannah placed her palm flat on the bar top to steady herself.
“She went back to college, met that shithead of a child-molester husband—he got fired for it, you know.” Warren shook the ice in his now-empty glass, his voice conversational, the anger temporarily abated.
“Stuart? A child molester?” Hannah almost laughed, it seemed so ludicrous.
“Sure. He had a problem sleeping with his students.” Warren motioned to the bartender, pointing to his glass. Getting warmed up now.
“Okay, but he was a college professor. His students were all over eighteen. I mean, I’m not saying it’s ethical, but they weren’t children.”
“Well, he was fired for it, so what’s that tell ya. Anyway, she fucked him, and they moved to that goddamn castle, looking down on everybody in Rockwell, and I sat down here like a chump, cleaning shit outa people’s toilets.”
“What about Ruby?” Hannah ventured.
“Not mine.”
Hannah put the timeline together in her head. Took a leap. “Ruby was five when she died in 1996. Fae left you in 1991. Or at least that’s when she changed her name. Which means she had Ruby before she left.”
“She was sleeping with that pervert long before she left.” Warren’s voice was getting louder. “That girl looked just like him. All them freckles and that blonde hair.”
Hannah studied Warren, realizing with a start that she hadn’t seen a picture of Ruby. Warren’s hair was dark, almost black, slicked back and oily. Fae’s had been salt and pepper when Hannah knew her but dark when she’d been younger. Stuart’s had been blond, shining in the sun. It had silvered early, Hannah remembered. She hadn’t looked for pictures, only documents.
“Who was Ellie’s mother, then?” Hannah whispered.
“Not your aunt. Ellie’s mother was, and is, a druggie. Last I heard, she was in jail. You leave her out of this.” He didn’t look at Hannah when he said it, his lip curled.
“What’s her name, if it’s not Fae?” Hannah still wasn’t sure what she was getting at, but she was getting more information from Warren when she pissed him off than when she played nice. Warren fixed his gaze on her, his eyes widening with anger. Hannah felt his growing rage across the small space between them and regretted this line of questioning, this intrusion, but she was so close. Too close. He wasn’t going to answer her. Hannah took a breath and pressed on. “Ellie was what, eleven when Ruby died? But for the first year of Ruby’s life, she lived with you and Ellie. Didn’t Ellie miss her?”
“She was ten.” Warren turned his gaze back to his now-full glass, stirring the ice with two dirty fingers.
Ten.
Hannah felt the click of another piece of the puzzle. Stuart’s nonsense mumbling: She was ten . . . it was an accident. The realization sudden and lurching. “Warren.” What if she was wrong? She had nothing to lose. “Ellie was there, wasn’t she? The day Ruby died.”
Warren stood up so fast the barstool behind him crashed to the ground. His hand circled Hannah’s arm roughly, enough to leave a bruise, his breath smelling like liquor and cigarettes and decay. “Ellie had nothing to do with that little girl’s death, and your bitch of an aunt saying so for twenty years never amounted to anything either. You need to go the fuck home. Before you end up in the ravine too.” Hannah’s heart hammered, but she squared her shoulders, held his gaze.
He shoved her. Hannah stumbled but didn’t fall. A man at the far end of the bar stood up, called, “Hey!” But Warren would have easily towered over him, and he only took one half-hearted step in their direction. The few patrons scattered along the bar stopped to look at the commotion.
Warren leaned into her face. He was over six feet tall, and she’d greatly underestimated his strength. He walked her back against the bar, the wood rough against her palms. His face inches from hers, his eyes manic.
“Get out,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “Don’t ever come back here spouting that bullshit. Don’t ever come back at all, you hear me? I’ll give you one warning. I see your ass in Rockwell again, asking questions like this, I’ll kill you myself.”
“Bull.” The warning from across the room came from the bartender, and it took Hannah a moment to realize it was a nickname: bull. Bull. Warren stood fully upright, sat back in his barstool.
Hannah left, her legs wobbling. She kept her back straight as she walked through the door and into the sunlight. She would not look afraid.
She might be terrified, but Julia had taught her that. Even if you are shaking on the inside, you are a goddamn rock on the outside.
CHAPTER FORTY
Then
July 25, 2002
Julia had always been formidable. People didn’t want to cross her. No one wanted to piss her off, feel that cool chill that came off her like a stench when she was mad.
And yet somehow, without trying, Hannah felt like all she did was piss her sister off lately. She tried to talk to her about the ghosts Julia claimed to see or feel. About the baby-shoe prank. About riding into town alone. But Julia would just shrug.
Then she’d take her bike and ride into town alone.
Hannah didn’t know whether or not to tell Aunt Fae. On one hand, it seemed to be the only thing keeping her sister from calling their mother and demanding they come home. On the other, if Julia got herself killed, they’d definitely have to go home.