Hannah had been spending so much of her time in the library. The ceiling-high shelves stocked with old, musty books that she had never even heard of: Pride and Prejudice, Anna Karenina, Love in the Time of Cholera. She’d tried to read some of them, but mostly she’d fall asleep. She still wasn’t sleeping well, and she wasn’t having nightmares, exactly, just dreams of wandering the halls of the castle. She woke up this morning standing in the kitchen. This never happened at home, and it was unsettling. Scary, even. And it was even more frightening that she couldn’t talk to Julia about it.
Hannah hated to admit it, but Julia was right. Aunt Fae and Uncle Stuart were different this summer. They were quieter, more solemn. Uncle Stuart hadn’t even pulled a quarter out of her ear yet. He didn’t always come to dinner, sometimes staying in his greenhouse long after sunset, potting herbs under the bright fluorescent lights.
Without warning, there was screaming coming from the hallway.
Julia and Aunt Fae. Fighting!
Hannah bolted upright, crept quickly to the doorway, but stayed back, out of view.
“You cannot break into rooms that are locked! That is not allowed. If I find you in that room again, I’ll send you both home!” Aunt Fae was madder than Hannah had ever heard her.
“What secrets are you keeping from us?” Julia shouted back, her voice loud. Righteous.
“You are a child. I’m an adult. I can keep anything from you that I want. You are a guest in my house. This is my house.” Aunt Fae’s voice lowered, menacing.
“What if I don’t want to stay here . . . with a liar?” A pause. Then, quieter, “Or worse?”
“What does that mean, child?”
“Oh, like you don’t know what I’m talking about. I know what you’ve done.”
There was some kind of movement in the hall—a whisper, a scuffle. Hannah couldn’t make it out.
Then Aunt Fae’s voice. “You will obey my rules. You don’t know half of what you think you do.”
Julia slammed her bedroom door so hard a book in the library fell off the top shelf. Hannah shrank back against the bookcase, her heart in her throat. What had all that meant?
Hannah slunk back down the hall to her own bedroom. She eased open the doors between their rooms, and her sister lay faceup on her bed, her arms folded behind her head, fat tears stuck on plump cheeks.
“What was that about?” Hannah prodded, without waiting for her sister to acknowledge her.
“I tried to tell you I want to go home. You don’t care. There is evil here. A death. Something. It’s enough to drive a person crazy. Jinny says—”
“You talk to Jinny? Does Aunt Fae know?”
“No. She’s helping me.”
“With what?”
Julia turned her head to look at Hannah, her nose running, and Hannah almost hugged her. But couldn’t bring herself to do it. Her sister’s need for attention—to take it far enough to anger their aunt this much—felt vulgar.
Julia sensed the hesitation in Hannah. “Never mind.”
Hannah paused. “What did you find?”
Julia stared at Hannah for a long while before answering. “Nothing. I found nothing.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Now
“He said he would fucking kill you himself?” Wyatt asked.
“Yes, and that I’d end up in the ravine too.” Hannah stood in Wyatt’s house. She’d called him from her locked car in the parking lot of Pinker’s, and he’d given her his address. He lived outside of town in a rustic A-frame with a slate roof nestled a half mile back a dirt road in the woods. A wall of windows faced north, and the view looked out onto shale cliffs and, just beyond that, the glittering gray stripe of the Beaverkill. The house was beautiful, and it was everything about Wyatt that Hannah remembered: warm, welcoming, charming. The great room had been outfitted with large skylights, and the whole house felt like an extension of the forest around it. “This is a gorgeous home, Wyatt.” She said it softly, almost regretfully. “How did you find something like this?”
“I built it.”
Hannah made a sound of surprise, but it died in her throat. Of course he had. She closed her eyes.
“What if Warren is connected to this? He got so violent so fast. All I did was want to talk to him.” She waved her hand around at the vague “this,” feeling ridiculous for not fully knowing which “this” she was referring to. Her sister? Ellie? Ruby? She opened her eyes and studied Wyatt, who had turned his back to look out at the river.
“Warren isn’t a good guy. You can’t just charge around and accuse people of being involved in criminal activity. This is what the police do, but with actual evidence and paperwork.” Wyatt pinched the bridge of his nose and then gave her a small smile. “Please sit, Hannah.”
She sat on an oversize leather couch dotted with chunky white knitted pillows. Wyatt perched next to her, reached out, and squeezed her knee.
“Did you decorate the place? Or was that Liza?” Hannah pulled one of the knitted pillows onto her lap, hugging it.
Wyatt seemed to startle at the mention of his ex-wife. “She did some of it, but honestly, the house was . . .” His voice trailed off, and he looked around, bereft. “One of the things that did us in. She didn’t want to stay in Rockwell at all. I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.”
“Why didn’t she want to stay?”
“She was a transplant. Remember when she moved here? I was born and raised here. She came to the town later. We got married; I assumed we’d always just stay here. She . . . well, we should have talked more, that’s all. About everything.” Wyatt gave her a rueful smile, the wrinkles around his eyes the only sign of age. He still had a great smile, all teeth. His auburn hair had grown out in the weeks she’d been in town, and it curled adorably on his forehead. He brushed it back with his palm. “Anyway.”
“I know you can’t talk about open investigations, but what if Warren had something to do with my sister, or even Ellie? I feel like the two disappearances are connected, even though everyone said Ellie ran away and Warren was abusive. What if he killed Ellie, and Julia found out, so she ran away to protect herself?” Huck had laughed at her when she’d floated this theory. Witness protection? Hannah cringed. Then sat up straight and snapped her fingers. “And actually, in there, somewhere, before all this, Ruby died. It’s an awful lot of death for a very small town.”
“Slow down there. Ruby?” Wyatt knitted his eyebrows, leaned back in his chair. He folded a long leg, resting his ankle on his knee. Hannah turned away. Something about the sight of Wyatt in sweatpants and socks—it was all too intimate, the dark patch of leg hair on his ankle. His T-shirt was rumpled, and she wondered if he’d worked late. If he slept in that and maybe had just woken up? Oh God, she felt her cheeks warm.
“Fae’s daughter. She died when she was five. It would have been 1996 according to Jinny.” She focused on the mental math.
“Okay, Hannah, just think about what you’re saying. You’re talking about three deaths in ten years that are only loosely connected. Even for a small town, that’s a negligible number. And Ruby was an accident, correct? She fell out of the second-story window. Ellie ran away; we have some old evidence. A bus ticket, security footage of her buying it.” He continued, “Your sister is the only real unsolved here.”