Girls of Brackenhill

by Moretti, Kate

  “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.”

  “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 i
n 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.”

  “History is one word for it, yeah. They hated each other, loved each other, then hated each other for the past forty years.”

  “Okay, but I’m no detective. Obviously.”

  “Obviously. Listen, is that all, or do you want to order something?”

  Hannah looked around; the place was starting to empty out. It was ten o’clock on a Tuesday. Summer or not, some of these folks had to work. “Miller Lite,” she said. From a tray on the bar, she picked up a matchbook emblazoned with Pinker’s on the outside and a phone number. She stuck it in her jeans pocket.

  Hannah nursed the beer for a half hour. Alternating between checking her phone and watching the door. She didn’t want to be around if Warren stumbled back in—or worse yet, Wyatt.

  Pinker made his way back to her end and gestured to her glass. She shook her head.

  “What’s your real name?”

  “Joel Pinkerton. Pinker’s was my dad’s; I took it over after his stroke.” He had started to clean up, pushing each glass down over the wash spigot and setting them on a clean towel next to the sink.

  “Sorry about your dad.” She tapped a credit card on the glass, and he took it from her, ran it through the machine. “I’m Hannah Maloney.”

  “I know who you are. Bull’s been ranting and raving about you for a week now.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Poking around his life, he says.” Joel stopped washing glasses and put both hands facing down on the bar, leaning toward her. “He’s not a good guy, you know. You’d be wise to stay out of his way. He and your family are entwined, and you don’t live here. He’s a hothead.”

  “I know. I can handle myself.” Hannah straightened her spine, felt her jaw square.

  “I’m sure. But you’re getting yourself wrapped up in shit you don’t understand. It’s ancient history, but not to Bull.”

  “What’s ancient history? His marriage to Fae?” Hannah spun her glass, her fingertips tapping in the condensatio
n puddles on the wood.

  He knitted his brows, studied her face. “Is it possible you really have no idea? I thought you were putting on an act.”

  “I assure you, I cannot act. Have no idea about what?” Hannah did her best to meet his gaze, opening her own eyes a little wider. Another flirt trick from Julia. She’d forgotten most of them, but somehow lately, she could hear Julia’s voice. Remember her sisterly advice—even the ridiculous kind.

  “Ellie. Warren. Fae.” Joel circled his hand around like, You know. She did not know.

  “Ellie is Warren’s daughter. Fae was her stepmother until she was ten. Warren and Fae were married. That’s all I know.” Hannah splayed her hands out like, See?

  “Damn, you’re not playing me.” Joel ran a hand through his thick hair. “Okay, listen, but you didn’t hear all this from me. The night Ellie ran away—and she truly ran away, she had a bus ticket, the cops have her on camera at the station—Warren swears on his life he saw her up at Brackenhill. He’s been spouting nonsense about it ever since. I mean, he’s been a drunk for twenty years or more; it’s not credible, but . . . he did get McCarran to reopen the investigation.”

  “Wait, spouting nonsense about what? What investigation?”

  “Into what happened to Ellie. Warren saw Ellie at Brackenhill; he followed her up there after an argument, he says. Then she disappeared into the woods, and he says Fae followed her. He tried to chase them down, but it’s thick back there, and he got turned around. Look, he was probably drunk as a skunk.” Joel’s voice was low, and Hannah had to lean forward to hear him.

  “I don’t understand, though. If she ran away, what could he possibly be saying? What are the police investigating?”

  “That night he saw them? Warren is convinced that Fae killed Ellie.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Now

  Huck had left eight days ago. Hannah spoke to him once briefly on the phone. He hollered in the background to someone else: a worker, perhaps. “Sorry, hon, that’s just Dave.” Like she should have known who Dave was. Hannah played along (“Oh, right, Dave! Tell him I said hello”). When they hung up, she felt no more connected to him than she’d felt before the call. They might as well have not even spoken. The exchange was perfunctory, transactional.