“I do.” Alice’s eyes narrowed. “Would you like to look at it?” She gestured toward the driveway.
“I might on my way out, thank you.” Wyatt seemed unfazed by Alice’s sudden change in demeanor. But Hannah avoided her eyes, keenly aware of her judgment.
“Why would anyone want to kill Fae?” Alice asked, her hands splayed out before she let them fall to her sides.
Hannah knew why. The town had turned on Fae years ago; she was a witch. She and Jinny together, practicing devil worship. Somehow Jinny had escaped the widespread scorn. Fae had lived in a castle. She’d aged before their eyes and committed the ultimate sin of not caring. Her hair had grown long and gray like she’d deliberately fed into the gossip. She’d secured herself up on the hill, saying nothing, ignoring the chatter in town that called her a curse, a witch. That called the house a curse and, Hannah now realized, her family crazy. Hannah had always thought the people of Rockwell had blamed Fae for Julia without cause. But there had been a reason, even if Hannah had been unaware of it. If everyone but her had known that Ruby had existed and died, it shed new light on the way they’d viewed her. Everyone but Hannah had known that Fae’s family had inherited Brackenhill. That they had crazy in their bones. That girls went missing from Brackenhill as a regular pattern: Ruby, Ellie, Julia.
She hadn’t just killed Julia in their eyes. She was a serial murderer. A sick woman.
Who would kill someone like that? Well, just about anybody.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Now
The parking lot of Pinker’s was packed with mostly trucks. Ford F-150s and Chevy Silverados and smaller, older Toyotas with various letters missing (Toyta, Toota, Toyot) from the liftgate. Fae’s truck had been an old, rattling Ford Lightning from the late nineties. She’d rarely driven it into town, preferring to take their Volkswagen when she needed to go somewhere.
Hannah walked carefully around the lot. It was dusk, the sky lighting up with streaks of velvet purple. With her cell phone flashlight, she examined the front bumper of each and every truck in Pinker’s lot. Not a trace of paint on any of them. You’d think one of these drunks would periodically hit a fence on the way home.
“What you looking for now, sugar?” The words were drawn out, and Warren stood ten feet away from her, swaying slightly on his feet, arms folded across his chest. In his left hand, he flicked a cigarette.
Hannah stepped back out of his reach, and her heart picked up speed. He stood at least eight inches over her and could have leveled her with one meaty punch.
In his younger years, he would have been good looking. Now he looked worn, with an old flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows, his hair a mix of gray and black, greasy and slick. But she saw the handsome hiding under there. She tried to see what Fae had seen.
Wyatt would kill her if he knew she was here. Warren might kill her now. She remembered his menace, his hatred of her, evident in his face, the spit at the corners of his mouth, a visceral violence.
This time, he smiled. He looked her up and down, an exaggerated leer. She realized the parking lot, while full of cars, was deserted. Pinker’s pulsed with loud classic rock music; no one would hear her scream. Hannah palmed a small can of pepper spray and steadied her breathing.
“How did you and Fae meet?” she asked, and Warren raised his eyebrows, surprised. He didn’t seem drunk.
“In town. Went to different high schools, but our mothers knew each other. Saw her for the first time at the community center, sitting on a picnic table with her friends. She was a beauty. Like you.” He paused, smiled. “Like your sister too.”
Hannah felt the chill up her spine. What was she doing here?
“Did you kill Fae?”
The question was bold. Unformed in her mind before it was out of her mouth.
Instead of flying off into a rage, Warren tipped his head appraisingly. His voice was quiet, almost gleeful. “Well, I’ll be. You and McCarran a thing now, ain’t ya?”
Hannah felt her neck flush red. “No, of course not.”
“See, because he’s asked me that same question five times or so. Keeps at it, hoping if he hits me hard and long enough, something will shake out. I’ll fuck it all up. Warren the drunk, I guess. Can’t remember what he tells people, changes his story.” He walked into her space; Hannah could feel his breath on her cheek. “I got no reason to talk to you, but see, I was here. Thing about being the town drunk? Perfect alibi for every crime. Can’t pin it on me!” He threw his head back and laughed. He raised his arms to the sky and stumbled once before yelling, “Ask Pinker! I was here. All night. Every night, baby. Every fucking night of my life.”
He was still laughing as he climbed into the truck in front of her. The truck she’d been studying when Warren had caught her was his own. He started the engine, peeled away. Hannah watched the truck fishtail in the gravel and called Wyatt, left a message. “Warren just gunned it out of Pinker’s, probably drunk. Might want to get a guy on that.”
Inside the bar, the dance floor glowed red. The music switched, something twangy and new country with a steady beat, and a few bodies pulsed to the rhythm, pressed together. Some kissing. At the bar, the man from the other day was filling mugs on tap. Simple, straightforward beer: Miller, Bud, Coors. Someone down the bar top asked for an IPA, and the man barked out a curt no without looking up.
Hannah sat in the corner and waited for business to die down. The man she assumed was Pinker was younger than she’d thought he’d be. Maybe her age. With a mop of curly blond hair and biceps bursting out of his T-shirt. His mouth moved to the song coming from the jukebox, and someone across the bar from him said something that made him laugh. His smile was disarming.
“Can I help you?” He appeared in front of her holding a rag, his eyes skipping around the room.
“Are you Pinker? Do you own the place?” Hannah asked, a smile coyly playing on her lips. More flies with honey and all that jazz. It was much easier to flirt with Pinker than Warren.
“Depends on who’s asking.” He laughed and filled another mug before setting it down in front of an older woman to Hannah’s left. “Are you the IRS?”
“No. I’m Fae Webster’s niece?” Goddamn it, that had come out like a question. She hated that.
He stopped moving and gaped at her. “I thought she was dead.”
“The other one. Her sister.” And then because Hannah couldn’t help it: “She’s not dead.”
He studied her, his brown eyes searching her face. “Ah yes. I always forget she had a sister.”
“Everyone does.” Hannah let it hang there untouched for a moment. She was always the other one, at least since she’d been back in Rockwell. Then she cleared her throat. “Was Warren in here the night Fae died?”
“All night. Already checked those records for McCarran.” Pinker didn’t make a move to wait on anyone else, despite the clamor at the other end of the bar.
“Why would Officer McCarran think that Warren killed Fae?”
“You’d have to ask him.” Pinker shrugged and made a move to walk away, but Hannah called him back. He gave her a look and said, “Besides, why would you?”
“Because he’s the meanest guy in town. And he had a history with my aunt.”