“So what’s up?” Hannah finally asked when the silence grew.
“Hannah, you just left. The other day. How are you? Are you okay? Can we talk?” Wyatt leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “I’m not sorry it happened. But I am sorry if it upset you.”
“Stuart is dying. Probably today,” she blurted, and his eyes softened, his face slack. “So I’m staying awhile.” She gripped her elbows with the opposite hands, her arms tucked tight against her waist.
“I’m sorry, Han. I really am. It’s a lot for a person to take.” Wyatt motioned around the sitting room. “All of this.”
“Yes. Well. Did you have news?” Hannah clapped her hands, oddly, and Wyatt looked alarmed.
“I do,” he said slowly. “But you don’t seem yourself. You seem like you’re . . . cracking.”
“Just tell me the news. I’m fine. You said there was a case development.” Hannah’s heart picked up speed and slowed down, like Alice had said Stuart’s was doing, and she wondered if she was channeling his death, or maybe she was dying too. Maybe her heart would stop right here in this velvet sitting room, on this green velvet chair, and she could just go to sleep—real sleep, instead of waking up all over the house.
“It’s about Fae.”
Hannah’s head snapped up. Fae? She’d expected Julia or even Ruby. Warren. What could possibly be advancing in Fae’s case?
“We now officially have reason to believe her accident was likely not an accident.”
“What else would it be?” It had been a week since Wyatt had mentioned Aunt Fae’s accident. Hannah had assumed they’d closed the case.
“Well, there was some paint transfer. Which by itself isn’t indicative of anything. Someone could have bumped her in the parking lot of the Fresh N Save. But we looked closer at the scene because of it, and there are no skid marks.”
“What does that mean?” Hannah was tired of asking for the truth. Tired of chasing it. She just wanted something to be simple and easy and plain.
“It means she didn’t brake. If you were losing control of your car, you’d brake. Unless . . .” Wyatt cleared his throat, then reached out and took her hand. “Unless you were surprised. Unless someone clipped you on the left corner of your truck, leaving paint transfer and sending your vehicle into the ravine, right?”
“I mean, maybe?”
“The truck was far into the ravine, indicating a pretty steep trajectory. If she was trying to gain control of her truck for a few seconds because she’d been going too fast or whatever, she would have slowed down quite a bit before breaking into the guardrail.”
Hannah closed her eyes, felt Wyatt’s hand grip hers, and let him. “So someone killed her?”
“It seems possible, yes.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Now
“Now do you believe me?” Hannah demanded, anger finally rising to the surface. For weeks she’d been wandering around, aimless, feeling hollowed out. Now she seemed to be filling up with rage, bubbling over, and she felt helpless to stop it. Wyatt rubbed his jaw like he did when he was thinking, nervous. They both stood. He made a move toward her, and she held her hand up.
“It’s not that simple, Hannah. We can’t just connect dots simply because they all exist. Yes, we are obviously exploring all avenues, and that means that maybe an old crime connects to a new crime. That’s Investigation 101. But it could also be a drunk who had a little too much at Pinker’s, tried to pass her, and misjudged. Do you understand?”
“No, I really don’t. You haven’t talked to Warren. Did you talk to Lila? Warren’s neighbor?” Hannah pressed, closing in on Wyatt, so close she could see the stubble on his chin, the spray of dark curls at his neckline.
“I know who Lila is, Hannah.” Wyatt’s voice was measured, and his jaw worked. He was getting angry, having his job questioned. Too bad.
“I just can’t leave here until I know something. And all you keep doing is showing up with new questions. The girl in the woods”—Hannah pointed toward the backyard—“was pregnant. She’s not Julia. Aunt Fae was murdered.” And then things she didn’t say. Ruby had fallen out a window. Ellie was Warren’s daughter. So many pieces—but all to different puzzles. Or maybe if she could find the center, it would all connect, like a key. Somehow.
Then a thought. “Am I allowed to go home yet?”
“I can’t make you stay. I can and will ask you to until we close the investigation.”
“That could be months.”
“We’d let you leave before then.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “You’re all we have, that’s all. Alice has been around for a while, but no one in town knows Fae anymore. If we have a question about her history, her life, you’re all we’ve got.”
“I don’t know anything about her life. I haven’t spoken to her in seventeen years.”
“But she’s your family. You know more than you think you do. Just give me a week, if you could?”
Hannah had to stay anyway for Uncle Stuart. She had to sort out the house, the estate; there would be lawyers. Who would clean the house out? She’d have to sell it. Who would buy an almost two-hundred-year-old castle? She couldn’t imagine bringing the plumbing and electrical up to code. The very idea of it made Hannah tired.
Unless she lived here. The thought popped in again, and she quickly extinguished it. Ridiculous. Hannah took a step back, putting some air between them. He followed her, closed the gap.
His hand went to her waist, like he was going to hug her, but stopped. The heat of his palm through her nightshirt had its own current. His head dipped, his voice low, he said, “Can we talk about the other night?”
“No.” The answer was automatic, and then Hannah wilted. “Yes. Of course. I’m acting like a child; I know that. I just . . . I can’t.”
“I know.”
“I’m engaged.”
“I know.” Wyatt drew a breath that sounded, to her ears, ragged. He took a step back then and released her. “You’re it for me, though, Han. Kind of always have been.”
“I don’t know what that means, Wyatt.” But of course she did. She’d be an idiot not to.
There was a sound, a throat clearing, perhaps, and Alice stood in the doorway between the hall and the living room. They jumped apart as though they’d been kissing. Hannah’s cheeks grew hot. Alice was a hospice nurse, nothing more. Hannah didn’t owe her an explanation about her life, and yet Alice stared at the two of them, her jaw tight and eyes narrowed.
“What’s the issue, Detective McCarran?” Alice asked, her voice crisp.
“We think there may be another car involved in Ms. Webster’s accident. We found paint transfer on her bumper, and the road marks suggest she was surprised to find herself out of control.”
“Would have had to be a bigger truck to take that risk then, yes?” Alice asked. “To run her off the road? You wouldn’t attempt that in a small car.”
“Yes, ma’am. We’re looking into who owns trucks in Rockwell. It’s almost everyone, unfortunately. Even you own a truck.”