Find the green door.
The key in Hannah’s sweatshirt pocket hummed. She’d forgotten about it. She’d taken to wearing the same hooded sweatshirt every day now, not wanting to venture to the basement to do laundry.
Her fingertips found the doorknob again and then the lock. She slid the fleur-de-lis key into the lock, and underneath her palm she felt the click of tumblers sliding into place, a sick swelling in her chest, her breath coming in gulps. Something about the storm shelter felt dangerous, hidden. The knob turned in her hand, and she was able to slide into the narrow stairwell and ease the door closed in front of her. She could only hope the vines fell back in front of the door, the way she’d found them. Or that Alice wouldn’t double back and look closely with her lantern. Or that she’d fall into the gully.
If Alice found Hannah here, she’d kill her.
Hannah ran her hands along the walls on either side. The stairwell was narrow, with dirt walls and only (she counted) four steps into what felt like a larger room. She could hear her breathing hollow in her ears, her pulse loud as a full drum line at a football game. She didn’t have Alice’s battery lantern or even a flashlight.
Too bad she wasn’t in the greenhouse. Uncle Stuart always kept small portable propane lanterns in the greenhouse. Mostly because he said the batteries didn’t make it through the weather changes, and he wanted to make sure he had them for emergencies if he had to get back.
The matches! From Pinker’s! She’d swiped them so she’d have easy access to the phone number, address, manager’s name. She lit the first match.
The room was tiny, maybe ten by ten. There were shelves on the walls. Flour sacks on the floor.
A pulse of familiarity. She’d never been here before; they’d never been able to find a key.
But wait. That wasn’t right. She’d been inside, hadn’t she?
On the first shelf to her left sat three of Uncle Stuart’s propane lanterns. She hadn’t even known he’d ever used this room. He must have stored them and not remembered? He was always prepared. Behind the lanterns were stacked cans of vegetables—corn and carrots—and a carton of preserved eggs coated in an oily sheen. Two decades old, rotting, inedible.
She lit another match to see what she was doing and turned the knob on the bottom of the lantern. A gentle hiss told her the tank was full. She touched the flame to the filament, and the room lit up with a muted glow.
It was the room from her vision at Jinny’s.
Hannah felt the breath leave her lungs, her heart constrict.
A woman stood in the center, her face in shadow, her hair long and loose around her shoulders, shining even in the dim light. She moved, and the swish of a yellow sundress swirled around her legs.
“Julia,” Hannah said, her voice a croak, her throat closing, her vision starting to pinhole. Her hand went to her mouth in a silent scream.
“Hello, Hannah,” said her sister. She stepped closer, the lantern light bouncing off the walls, creating shadows and pockets of light and dark. She smiled then, at once familiar and foreign and beautiful, after all this time.
And then, “You came back.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Now
Hannah cried out, her voice strangled. Julia! Here!
What was real? It didn’t seem real. She reached out, touched her sister’s soft skin, her hand as warm as her own. Hannah hugged her fiercely, her vision blurred with tears.
“How are you here?” Hannah asked, her thoughts tumbling. “I knew you’d come back.”
“I’ve been here the whole time,” Julia said slowly. She held Hannah out at arm’s length and studied her face. “I’m still here.”
“That’s . . . not possible. How?” Hannah looked around. There was no food, no water. Just the small enclosure of the storm shelter, lined with shelves containing old canned vegetables; even the oiled eggs would be rotten. A dirt floor. In the corner a burlap blanket. On the far back wall, a second door, seemingly secured.
Nothing about any of this seemed real or possible. But then again, with Brackenhill, nothing ever had.
“Hannah, look at me,” Julia said softly, her voice almost soothing, and Hannah felt herself lulled into the spell: the small dark room, her sister—alive!—who had come back for her, as she’d known she would.
“I knew you’d come back,” Hannah said again, repeating herself and knowing it and not caring.
“Look at me,” Julia repeated, her voice softer still, and finally Hannah did. Her sister’s face didn’t look a day over seventeen: pink, plump cheeks, her lips full despite the years, her eyes still shining, sparkling.
“You haven’t aged a bit,” Hannah said, pressing her palms together. “You look incredible. I’m just so happy.” And she was so happy her chest felt tight with joy. She forgot about Wyatt and Huck and Stuart and Brackenhill and Fae. Her whole world felt bright again, like Julia could open up parts of her heart that had been sewn shut forever.
“Remember how excited we were when we found this place?” The memory came rushing back, the two of them finding the little door in the side of the hill. And trying every which way to open it and failing, the lock rusted shut. Wait, that wasn’t right. It hadn’t been rusted shut. What was it? Hannah couldn’t remember.
“Why haven’t I aged, Hannah?”
Why did Julia keep saying her name like that? Like the night in the park, the way everyone had treated her like she was crazy. She hadn’t been crazy. She’d been angry; there was a difference.
“You’ve always been the beautiful one,” Hannah said finally, her voice faltering.
Click, click. The turning of a key. Thump, thump.
Why couldn’t she get that out of her head? She’d always done that—hyperfocused on things. Dwelling, her mother had said. She was a dweller. Click, click. Thump, thump.
“Hannah, listen to me. I didn’t run away. You know that, right?”
“Of course you did. Everyone said Aunt Fae killed you, but I knew that wasn’t possible. That wasn’t possible, right?”
Julia tilted her head, shaking it, and studied Hannah. She took a breath. “Hannah, I need you to think for a moment, okay?”
Hannah nodded. How easily she fell back into it, her sister the leader, the teacher, the mother. She the faithful student, the child.
Oh, there was so much she had to tell her. Wyatt and Huck and Aunt Fae. Aunt Fae! Oh, poor Julia. “Aunt Fae is dead, Julia. She died in a car accident—”
“Hannah, STOP.” Julia’s voice was loud and firm in the tiny room, and Hannah’s thoughts stilled. Her sister always did this, though. If Hannah got too excitable, Julia tempered it. Hannah had been too much for Julia. Too much for Trina. Too much for everyone.
“I didn’t run away. I need you to think. I need you to remember. You need to remember.” Julia’s voice edged higher. She took Hannah’s hands in her own, and now they felt cold. “Think, Hannah. I can’t make you remember. Only you can do that.”
“It was starting to rain. You packed a bag. The path was slippery. I hurt my ankle.” Hannah spoke slowly, the images coming in bursts.
“Did you really hurt your ankle?”
Yes. No. “We would be sent back to Plymouth. I just wanted to stop you from going to the police.”