“Hannah!” Julia yelped.
Outside, the air felt cooler. A breeze was blowing a storm in. The air hummed with energy.
Hannah slammed the door shut.
Clicked the padlock closed. Click, click.
Julia’s footfalls hit the concrete steps on the other side. Then: thump, thump.
“What are you doing, Hannah? Let me out!”
Then, “Hannah, please.” And softer, again.
Thump, thump. The weight of her sister’s fists on the other side of the door.
Hannah on the outside. Combing the vines—just so—with her fingertips over the wood. Until the hillside looked like a hillside, nothing more or less.
The muffled sound of her voice. “Hannah, please.”
If she took three steps back, onto the path, Hannah couldn’t hear it anymore. Tamped down by earth and dirt and the quiet sound of rain and the rumble of thunder.
Like no one had ever been there.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Now
How long had she been there?
What time was it?
Thump, thump. Hannah, please.
Thump, thump. Hannah, please.
Thump, thump. Hannah, please.
And then, “Hannah, get up.” A woman’s voice.
Hannah lifted her head off the dirt floor. Expected to see Julia, face pinched with anger at what she’d done. But no, Julia was dead. She was gone. That was Hannah’s fault. She felt the beginnings of the truth of that: the dull body ache, something sharp in her chest, making it hard to breathe.
Instead Alice stood above her, the hunting knife glinting in her hand. Hannah sucked in air. Julia was gone.
“How did you . . . get in here?”
“You were moaning. I could hear it from the path. Screaming, really.” Alice shook her head, her eyebrows knitted sympathetically. “I have to say I wasn’t expecting this. I thought you were long gone.” She smiled, all lips, no teeth. “You killed your sister?”
“Where is Julia?” Hannah asked. “What have you done to her?”
“Julia? Hannah, dear. You aren’t well, are you?” Alice tipped her head to the side, scrutinized Hannah’s face. “Have you been sleeping poorly?” Her voice took on a sympathetic tone. “Did you take the Klonopin like I told you?”
“Detective McCarran will be looking for me.” Hannah’s voice shook when she said it. An empty threat, and they both knew it.
“Oh dear, I’m afraid he won’t. Wyatt, as you affectionately call him, has no idea you’re here. See, there’s no service underground. There’s no cell service in this forest.”
Hannah struggled to stand but felt weighted—heavy and broken—and her mind slogged through the possibilities. The door behind Hannah, where did it lead? She had no idea. Underground, she assumed. Alice blocked her exit to the forest.
“Where’s my sister?”
“Your sister is dead because you killed her,” Alice snapped.
She had no idea what to trust—what tricks her mind was playing on her. She’d spent the past two weeks walking through Brackenhill in a dream state: half-asleep, half-awake. She had no idea if this was any different. Had Julia been here? No. Because that was not possible. What Alice had said made sense.
Hannah had killed Julia. She’d left her in the storm shelter to die.
Her mind handed her images then, things she’d long forgotten. The day after, she and Uncle Stuart had combed the forest, calling for Julia. Circling past the storm shelter, down to the shed, through the courtyard, and down the river. Over and over again. Each pass of the storm shelter, Hannah would call her sister, wait a beat and listen, but hear nothing back. She remembered the feeling of relief then, a sagging, heart-pounding, thrumming relief.
No. Hannah had loved Julia. Hadn’t she? Oh God. Hannah was a monster. A killer.
Ellie had pushed Ruby, the impulse of a child. Fae had killed Ellie, blinded by grief and rage. Hannah had killed Julia (she could hardly believe it still) out of fear. Alice had killed Fae for revenge. A tragic, violent daisy chain. Brackenhill hadn’t killed anyone: they’d all done it to themselves, consumed and isolated.
Oh God. Hannah was one of them now. Had been the whole time.
Alice stepped forward, her hair wild, her breath coming in gasps, the hunting knife flashing. A graze off Hannah’s shoulder and a slicing pain.
Hannah turned and took two large steps to the door in the back of the storm shelter. She said a silent prayer that the door would be unlocked and pushed with her whole body weight. The door flew open, almost sending her spinning into a dark hallway. The lantern swung wildly in her hand, and she kicked the door shut behind her. In the hallway before her lay a stack of cut wood.
She wedged the first two-by-four between the walls of the hallway, in front of the door. From the other side the door opened violently against the aging beam. She stacked five beams, one on top of the other, wedging them between the walls of the door, just to keep it closed.
The banging against the interior door stopped, and Hannah realized what Alice must have already known: the door to the forest remained unlocked. Alice was free. The beams just bought Hannah time.
How much?
That depended on where she was.
She swung the lantern out in front of her. The tunnel stretched as far as she could see, narrow, the sides packed dirt and shored with rough-hewn beams every few yards. She understood now that the beams she’d used to bar the shelter door had been used in the construction of the original tunnel. By whom?
Hannah took off running, the lantern shaking in her hand and her breath coming in panicked gasps. The tunnel seemed to get smaller and more cramped, until she was hunched over. If she stood, the top of her head touched the dirt. When she passed the wooden braces, she had to duck. Where would she end up? The castle? What was above her? The courtyard? Would she eventually hit the Beaverkill? Would she come out in a manhole in Rockwell?
She had a momentary panic. A sudden flood of water would kill her. There was nowhere to go. It was too far to run back, and she had no idea of her destination.
Hannah pressed forward, the lantern flickering, lasting longer than it probably should have. Who knew how old the propane tank was or when it had been put there?
The tunnel wound around a curve, and Hannah slowed as she followed the sharp right bend.
And came abruptly to yet another wooden door.
Hannah took several calming breaths and pushed on this door the way she had the one at the storm shelter. It didn’t open. She tried the knob—turning one way, then the other. Locked.
Hannah removed the key from her pocket. It was a perfect fit for the lock, and the door clicked open easily. Her hand shook as she pushed it open.
She was in the labyrinth.
Oh God. The basement.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Now
The basement was dark; the lights had long ago burned out and the light bulbs not been replaced. Who would have replaced them? Stuart? There was nothing of Fae’s or Stuart’s in the basement anyway, save for the first small room. The rest, well, the rest was for them. For Julia and Hannah.
Hannah’s skin prickled, and blood rushed in her ears. She hadn’t been down in the basement since she was twelve. She remembered dropping cards one after the other. She remembered being stuck in the center room, the walls closing in literally and figuratively, Julia’s breath hot on her cheek, suffocating her, making her feel short on oxygen. They’d screamed until Stuart had come to rescue them, the door popping open easily, and he’d shaken his head, grumbling about their “wild imaginations.”