of them, but in a bad way. She needed to get away from him. Now there was nothing but repulsion. And fear.
“Oh, hey, one more thing.” He jogged up to her, keeping even with her pace, which had quickened. He reached out, grabbed her forearm. Not hard, but enough to stop her from moving. She turned to him, unease certainly written all over her face. “I’m sorry about your aunt.”
“Really? It doesn’t seem like it.” She jerked her arm away, unsure of what to do with her anger. Unsure where it came from or even if it was misdirected. Maybe she’d misread the whole exchange. Maybe Reggie was just doing his job. How could Wyatt stand him?
“A lot of strange happenings up in that castle on the hill, you know? All them missing girls years ago. Then your aunt and uncle move in, and there are more missing girls.”
“Julia ran away,” Hannah answered quickly, defensively. She said it rotely, automatically. She felt like she’d said it a million times since she’d come to Rockwell. Everyone questioning, even when they didn’t verbalize it. Wyatt, Alice, Reggie, even Huck.
“Uh-huh. I know. I’ve heard.” Reggie nodded, seemingly agreeable, his shoulders rising and falling like it was no big thing to him. Was he being Reggie the cop now? Or Reggie, the creep of a kid she used to know? “What about Ellie?”
“What about Ellie? You guys told me she ran away. Back when we were kids at the fish fry.” The words popped out of her mouth before she had time to think about it. She’d spent so much time training her mind away from that night that now, when she was an adult, whole portions of the evening were missing. Blank chunks of time. How had they gotten home? She didn’t remember.
The night Julia had run away.
“I’m just saying. In 2001, Ellie ran away. In 2002, Julia ran away. And now, seventeen years later, your aunt was running away and got herself killed.” Reggie coughed, starting to walk backward, away from Hannah, toward his truck. “You gotta wonder, that’s all. What’s everybody running from?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Then
June 2, 2002
The first day back in Rockwell was always the best day. Even that last summer, the first day felt thick with promise. The lick of anticipation sweet on their tongues, unsoured by reality. Misunderstandings had yet to happen; arguments had not yet been imagined. The impending summer loomed bright with possibilities. The idea that they had three whole months together, the pool, the castle, the grounds, the woods, the river, and now: the boys. The taste of last summer fresh on their lips like blackberries, fading fast, layered with new memories the way Uncle Stuart laid bricks.
Julia waved wildly as the big Buick rolled back down the driveway, Trina’s hand thrust out the window in an uncharacteristic burst of emotion. Aunt Fae and Uncle Stuart waved back from the driveway, stoic and reserved, before disappearing back inside. Julia squealed, up on her tiptoes, hands clapping silently, and she took Hannah’s hands in her own and danced them in a little circle.
“This is going to be the best year yet,” she gushed, her cheeks pinked and eyes gleaming. Later, she pulled Hannah to the shed and extracted the bikes.
Already? thought Hannah. It was fine; her heart skipped at the thought of Wyatt. She wanted to make up for that awful, awful night in Plymouth. Her thighs quivered (she hated that word, but that was what they did) at the thought.
She was fifteen now. Old enough for them to come out with their relationship. She had to convince him. She knew he couldn’t wait to see her again. He had sent her endless emails over the winter, and she had written back. Were they boyfriend and girlfriend? They hadn’t said so. Hannah didn’t think Tracy and Beth even believed he existed. She still hadn’t said a word to Julia. She just couldn’t.
Why all the secrecy? she’d asked Wyatt time and time again, and he’d replied, You’re fourteen. Could a seventeen-year-old get in trouble for dating a fourteen-year-old, even if there wasn’t sex (there hadn’t been sex, not yet, just almost sex that one awful night)? She didn’t know. Had no one to ask.
But now she was back. She was fifteen. She’d thought about that Plymouth night countless times, the feel of him under her palm, his sharp intake of breath, the knowledge that she’d done that. Made him hard. She could hardly even think the word, much less