Girls of Brackenhill

by Moretti, Kate

  “I know who you are,” he said without looking up at her. “Everyone does.”

  His voice had surprising clarity. No garble, no drunken slur. Hannah noticed his drink, brown and thin, the ice cubes the size of pebbles. He’d been there awhile, nursing the same bourbon.

  “I heard you came round my house,” Warren said.

  “I did.” Hannah felt stupid. She’d come without a plan. Again. She’d expected him to be drunk and therefore easy to talk to. She was good at selling herself and could be disarming. She’d relied too much on her charm this time. Hannah cleared her throat. “I just wanted to talk to you. I’m trying to figure out what happened to my sister. And maybe my aunt.” Hannah almost added, and your daughter, but held her tongue.

  “Why would I know anything about that?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t ask Fae or Stuart. I’ve already talked to Jinny. Everyone else I know in Rockwell was a kid at the time. You’re Ellie’s father. Fae’s husband. What do you remember?”

  If Warren was surprised by what Hannah knew, he didn’t show it. “Maybe she ran away, same as Ellie.” He shrugged, and Hannah noticed a tremor in his wrist.

  “Did they run away together?” Hannah asked.

  “No. A year apart, they tell me.”

  I heard. They tell me. “You don’t think so?” Hannah sat back in the barstool, wrapping her ankle around the chair leg.

  Warren laughed. “You really think I’m gonna tell you what I think? Why, so you can run and tell your little boyfriend?” He still hadn’t looked at her. “Do you know what they did to me when Ellie ran away? Thought I killed her. My own daughter.”

  Hannah had been fourteen and back at Plymouth High School when Ellie had supposedly run away. She’d had no idea what “they” had done to Warren, of course.

  “But you didn’t?” She said it to get a rise out of him, but the speed he turned his eyes on her made her heart hammer.

  “Fuck you.” He spat it at her, violent. White gathered at the corners of his mouth, his lips chapped and cracked. Up close, Warren was ugly, the scar almost pulsing purple. His eyebrows knitted together, his dark hair long and wild, growing down his face into an unruly, patchy beard. His nose was an eagle’s beak, hooked at the end with a crook in the center, broken in too many bar fights.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly. She’d been a fool to think that his anger would help her. Maybe. He kept his gaze on her face, a small smile forming.

  “You’re a pretty girl to be digging into such an ugly story,” Warren said quietly, his eyes settling on her lips.

  Hannah shifted on her stool, fiddled with her purse strap. “Yeah, well. It’s my sister. I thought you’d have known something. Everyone in Rockwell knows you. I thought maybe you’d know things that no one wants to talk about.”

  “What do you want to know about? What happened to Ellie? Or your sister?”

  “Both.”

  “You don’t get to hear both. Pick one.” Warren held up a single index finger, the nail yellow and jagged, stained with nicotine.

  “My aunt, Fae Webster.”

  He looked up; his mouth opened. She’d surprised him. “What the fuck you want to know about her?”

  “You were married? How long?” Hannah was on thin ice, reckless, her hands shaking.

  “Five years. But technically, still married.” He took a long drink.

  “Why wouldn’t you give her a divorce?”

  “None of your goddamn business.” His anger flashed again, then settled. The bartender glanced up, and Hannah made eye contact with him. He was vaguely familiar. “You wanna hear about that? How she fucked her teacher? She decided to go back to college, and I was stupid enough at the time to be proud of her. She got a scholarship. Something about architecture and history. Wanted to learn about old buildings or some shit like that. Inherited that fucking mansion and told me nothing about it.”

  “Who did she inherit it from?”

  “Her aunt. Apparently, the woman went crazy, ended up in a sanatorium. Willed everything to Fae, nothing to her sister when she died.” Realization dawned in his eyes. “That’s your mama, in’t it? Things’d turn out a bit differently if your mama had gotten that big old mansion, don’t you think? Don’t it piss you off?” Warren’s face twisted into a grim smile. “Pissed me off for sure. Working like a dog on plumbing, for fuck’s sake. Basically, shit pipes, and she’s sitting on a golden egg, just rotting up there on the hill.”

  Hannah felt the full throttle of childhood memories click into place: her mother’s bitterness at her sister, her aversion to Brackenhill overridden only by her desire to send her kids somewhere nice for the summer. Maybe get them away from her awful husband? Hannah didn’t know. It was a lot to take in, and her thoughts spun.

  “Is that why she left you? Because of Brackenhill?” Hannah placed her palm flat on the bar top to steady herself.

  “She went back to college, met that shithead of a child-molester husband—he got fired for it, you know.” Warren shook the ice in his now-empty glass, his voice conversational, the anger temporarily abated.

  “Stuart? A child molester?” Hannah almost laughed, it seemed so ludicrous.

  “Sure. He had a problem sleeping with his students.” Warren motioned to the bartender, pointing to his glass. Getting warmed up now.

  “Okay, but he was a college professor. His students were all over eighteen. I mean, I’m not saying it’s ethical, but they weren’t children.”

  “Well, he was fired for it, so what’s that tell ya. Anyway, she fucked him, and they moved to that goddamn castle, looking down on everybody in Rockwell, and I sat down here like a chump, cleaning shit outa people’s toilets.”

  “What about Ruby?” Hannah ventured.

  “Not mine.”

  Hannah put the timeline together in her head. Took a leap. “Ruby was five when she died in 1996. Fae left you in 1991. Or at least that’s when she changed her name. Which means she had Ruby before she left.”

  “She was sleeping with that pervert long before she left.” Warren’s voice was getting louder. “That girl looked just like him. All them freckles and that blonde hair.”

  Hannah studied Warren, realizing with a start that she hadn’t seen a picture of Ruby. Warren’s hair was dark, almost black, slicked back and oily. Fae’s had been salt and pepper when Hannah knew her but dark when she’d been younger. Stuart’s had been blond, shining in the sun. It had silvered early, Hannah remembered. She hadn’t looked for pictures, only documents.

  “Who was Ellie’s mother, then?” Hannah whispered.

  “Not your aunt. Ellie’s mother was, and is, a druggie. Last I heard, she was in jail. You leave her out of this.” He didn’t look at Hannah when he said it, his lip curled.

  “What’s her name, if it’s not Fae?” Hannah still wasn’t sure what she was getting at, but she was getting more information from Warren when she pissed him off than when she played nice. Warren fixed his gaze on her, his eyes widening with anger. Hannah felt his growing rage across the small space between them and regretted this line of questioning, this intrusion, but she was so close. Too close. He wasn’t going to answer her. Hannah took a breath and pressed on. “Ellie was what, eleven when Ruby died? But for the first year of Ruby’s life, she lived with you and Ellie. Didn’t Ellie miss her?”

  “She was ten.” Warren turned his gaze back to his now-full glass, stirring the ice with two dirty fingers.

  Ten.

  Hannah felt the click of another piece of the puzzle. Stuart’s nonsense mumbling: She was ten . . . it was an accident. The realization sudden and lurching. “Warren.” What if she was wrong? She had nothing to lose. “Ellie was there, wasn’t she? The day Ruby died.”

  Warren stood up so fast the barstool behind him crashed to the ground. His hand circled Hannah’s arm roughly, enough to leave a bruise, his breath smelling like liquor and cigarettes and decay. “Ellie had nothing to do with that little girl’s death, and your bitch of an a
unt saying so for twenty years never amounted to anything either. You need to go the fuck home. Before you end up in the ravine too.” Hannah’s heart hammered, but she squared her shoulders, held his gaze.

  He shoved her. Hannah stumbled but didn’t fall. A man at the far end of the bar stood up, called, “Hey!” But Warren would have easily towered over him, and he only took one half-hearted step in their direction. The few patrons scattered along the bar stopped to look at the commotion.

  Warren leaned into her face. He was over six feet tall, and she’d greatly underestimated his strength. He walked her back against the bar, the wood rough against her palms. His face inches from hers, his eyes manic.

  “Get out,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “Don’t ever come back here spouting that bullshit. Don’t ever come back at all, you hear me? I’ll give you one warning. I see your ass in Rockwell again, asking questions like this, I’ll kill you myself.”

  “Bull.” The warning from across the room came from the bartender, and it took Hannah a moment to realize it was a nickname: bull. Bull. Warren stood fully upright, sat back in his barstool.

  Hannah left, her legs wobbling. She kept her back straight as she walked through the door and into the sunlight. She would not look afraid.

  She might be terrified, but Julia had taught her that. Even if you are shaking on the inside, you are a goddamn rock on the outside.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Then

  July 25, 2002

  Julia had always been formidable. People didn’t want to cross her. No one wanted to piss her off, feel that cool chill that came off her like a stench when she was mad.

  And yet somehow, without trying, Hannah felt like all she did was piss her sister off lately. She tried to talk to her about the ghosts Julia claimed to see or feel. About the baby-shoe prank. About riding into town alone. But Julia would just shrug.

  Then she’d take her bike and ride into town alone.

  Hannah didn’t know whether or not to tell Aunt Fae. On one hand, it seemed to be the only thing keeping her sister from calling their mother and demanding they come home. On the other, if Julia got herself killed, they’d definitely have to go home.

  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 brush
ed 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.”

  “What about the skeleton! At Brackenhill!” Hannah would not be made to feel like she was crazy. She would not be gaslighted.

  “Of course that’s being investigated. I know I floated the idea of it being Ellie, and that could still be true, but officially, on the books, Ellie is a closed-case runaway. We don’t have an identity, because frankly, these things take time. Even if we had DNA, which we don’t yet, like I said, there’s no giant DNA database where everyone is logged and accounted for. She’d only be in the system if she committed a crime after 1997. But to blanketly just say Warren is connected and these deaths are connected would be irresponsible of me; that’s all I’m saying.”