That had been the question she’d asked him, only half-awake. It came back to her now. The memory of walking into Uncle Stuart’s room, sitting in the chair, and holding his hand came back in full, like she’d been conscious.
The lockbox contained only one document. It was folded in thirds, yellowed on the edges, and protected in a plastic sleeve. She extracted it carefully, pinching the brittle paper between her thumb and forefinger, before unfolding it on the desk, running her thumb along each crease to flatten it.
Title Deed across the top in ornate calligraphy.
This mortgage, made the sixth of May one thousand nine hundred and twenty-two, to Randall Foster Yost in consideration for the sum of five thousand dollars . . .
Yost. Not Webster.
Yost was her mother’s maiden name. And Fae’s. Brackenhill wasn’t Stuart’s; it was Fae’s.
Which could only mean one thing: unless Fae’s will said otherwise, Brackenhill belonged to Hannah.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Now
Get a grip.
Hannah folded the deed and shoved it back in the lockbox. She stored the box back in the closet and turned to see Alice standing in the center of the room. Where had she come from? What time was it?
Hannah said it out loud: “What time is it?”
Alice paused. “Six thirty. I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d start PT early,” she said.
Six thirty in the morning, then? Hannah felt the room tilt; her vision swam.
“Are we still doing PT?” Hannah cleared her throat, trying to get her bearings. Did they do physical therapy on a man who had days left to live?
Had Alice seen her rummaging through the closet? Did it even matter? It was Hannah’s house, not Alice’s.
Alice stared at her disapprovingly. “Well, death is unpredictable. Keeping him moving keeps him comfortable, in the long run. If there is a long run.”
Alice set her bag down, smoothed the front of her shirt. She wore scrubs: this time, they were pink with white bunnies. Her nursing clogs were bright white, new looking. Her face pinched, severe. Hannah realized she’d never seen her smile, not once.
Hannah took a deep breath. Then another. She was still in her nightgown. “Why don’t you meet me in the kitchen in ten minutes? I’ll get dressed. Let’s have coffee.”
Alice blanched. Recovered. Gave a quick nod. “Of course, Miss Maloney.”
“Alice, really. Please call me Hannah.”
In the kitchen, in jeans and a T-shirt, Hannah busied herself making coffee. Scoured the refrigerator for fruit and came up with croissants, three days stale. She needed normalcy, a conversation with another adult who wasn’t Jinny, speaking in cryptic riddles, or Uncle Stuart, not speaking at all, Huck, trying to tell her that all her hunches and suspicions weren’t rational or based in fact. Or Wyatt, making her stomach clench and her breathing hitch. Alice was a nice, neutral normal. N-N-N.
Hannah felt a giggle bubble up. God, she was cracking up.
“Something funny?” Alice said behind her, and Hannah whirled. Alice’s head was cocked to the side, her expression thoughtful.
“No. Maybe. Yes.” Hannah closed her eyes, then opened them. “I’m thinking of leaving soon. Not immediately, but you know, I have a life to return to.”
Alice smiled for the first time, revealing a browning canine. How old was she? Sixty? Hannah guessed. No. Fifty at the most. “Of course you do.”
“I don’t know what to do here,” Hannah confessed, arranging the croissants on a plate on the island. “Alice, how long have you been here? Helping Stuart?”
“Well, I’ve been helping Fae since Stuart took a turn for the worse, which was about a year ago last January. So eighteen months or so.”
That January Hannah had been promoted. She’d been newly in love with Huck. They’d moved in together in February, so they would have been consumed with plans. Her life, a few hundred miles away, and Fae had been hiring a nurse, feeding her husband baby food. Changing diapers? Who knew. Hannah’s stomach lurched.
“Fae was kind, gave me a chance. I had been down on my luck,” Alice said. “Looking for a new start. You know what that’s like.” Her tone was quiet, light even, but Hannah shifted uncomfortably.
“Well, yes, she could be generous,” Hannah said blithely. She remembered Fae from her childhood: stern but loving, giving with her time and patience, laughing more freely than her mother ever had, but with that certain tinge of sadness.
“Oh, for sure. The most generous person I know. But . . . people in Rockwell, well. They never got over what happened to