The House on Hancock Hill (12 page)

We drove on in complete silence until I couldn’t stand it anymore. “Are you mad at me?”

“What?” Henry sounded so shocked, I nearly laughed. He gave me a quick look before turning his attention back to the road. “No, of course I’m not mad at you. I’m concerned for you. There’s a difference.”

“Oh.”

Henry reached out and gently squeezed my knee as he said, “Unbelievable.” I didn’t know what he meant by that, so I said nothing. “We have another hour and a half before our meeting. Do you want to go take a look at the farm?” I gave that some thought, and he added, “You don’t have to, obviously. It’s just an idea.”

“No, I think I’d like to,” I said.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, why not. If you don’t—”

“I don’t mind,” he interrupted with a smile.

The Johnson farm sat on an outcrop of land, known locally as Hancock Hill, less than a mile from the cemetery. A long time ago, it’d been a dairy and sheep farm. The local legend had it that Alfred Wood, my grandfather, had saved Martin Johnson’s life after a hunting accident, which is why his wife ended up leaving the farm to Dad. I never found out if it was true or not. Dad used to smile and say nothing when I asked, and my grandfather had died before I was born. I don’t have much family left. A second cousin in Hawaii and Mom, and that’s it.

“We don’t have to get out.” Henry had put his hand on my arm, and I hadn’t even noticed. Did I want to get out? Seemed silly not to, now we were here. I opened my door, and he let me go. There was a mound of about five feet of snow pushed to the side by trucks clearing the road, and we couldn’t get very close, which was probably a good thing.

A piece of torn police tape snapped in the wind, and the rest of it disappeared underneath the fresh snow. Blackened beams scarred the white landscape grotesquely. Even the recent blizzard had done barely anything to erase the ugliness of it. An old hurt bloomed wide in my chest, and I gasped. At least Dad never had to see this.

Henry didn’t touch me, but he stood close enough I could feel the warmth of him, and I leaned into it.

“Our dads used to have these arguments about hunting, do you remember? Your dad was all for it, even though he’d never touched a rifle in his life.”

I did remember. They’d sit by that fire pit at the end of the backyard until the mosquitos drove them inside, making s’mores. Johnny, Henry, and I had thought we were real stealthy when we tried to drink from their beers.

Henry laughed softly. “Your dad would argue for the hunting of wolves, that Dad, as a vet, should understand the necessity of protecting livestock. I still don’t believe for a second he was actually in favor of shooting anything that lived.”

Henry still had his dad. There was no way he could know how painful all this was, so I was kind and said, “He wasn’t. All that was purely the academic in him loving a good debate.”

This time his laugh was warm and true. “And my father can debate all right. Until he’s blue in the face.”

Not trusting my voice, I nodded, and maybe he sensed it, because he fell silent.

The house had been mostly wood. In the distance, I could see the barns that had been off-limits when Dad was still alive, now looking even more decrepit than they had fifteen years ago. It wasn’t what I expected. My memories of the farm were frozen in time, and while Henry stood by me as changed as a person could be, for some reason I’d expected the farm to have remained the same. When they told me on the phone it had burned down, I’d imagined some blackened ceilings and water damage. I hadn’t expected the whole thing to be razed to the ground.

“They didn’t even try to put it out.” My voice shook, but I paid no attention to it.

“There was no point,” Henry told me, putting his hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently. He hesitated, and then slid his arm across my back, pulling me close. I took a lot more comfort from that than I expected. I guessed the sight of the farm shocked me more than I wanted to admit. “It’s pretty remote out here, and by the time the fire truck made it up, there wasn’t much left.”

“But all the snow… I don’t understand.”

“Maybe that’s why they’re questioning whether it was accidental.”

“But—” I brought a hand to my mouth. Had somebody actually been murdered here at the old farmhouse? Someone I possibly knew? Cold sweat broke out under the many layers of clothes I was wearing.

“We can call the sheriff and put off the identification.”

I shook my head, tearing my eyes away from my childhood haven in ashes. “Let’s get it over with.”

T
HE
FUNERAL
home was only a couple miles south of the farm. When Henry killed the engine, I wished it was another fifty. I wasn’t ready for this, and Henry’s grim expression was proof he knew that. Before he could tell me again we didn’t have to do this now—I feared this time I’d agree—I opened the door and jumped out of the cab. The impact with the icy ground jarred my ribs. The pain was a welcome distraction from what was waiting inside. To my surprise, Sheriff Curtis was standing in the foyer.

“The coroner’s stuck because of the snow, so I came out instead,” he explained as we shook hands. “Best to just get it done.” His shrewd bright eyes didn’t miss a thing. “This way.”

It seemed all personnel had made themselves scarce, or Curtis had told them to give us privacy, which I was grateful for. We pushed through a white curtain and stepped into a narrow hallway with six doors leading off it. Hand on the second doorknob to the left, Curtis said to Henry, “Technically, I can’t let you go inside with us, but—”

“I’m coming in.” Henry’s jaw tightened.

“I thought so.” The sheriff sighed. He turned to me and took off his hat. “Ready?”

“No, but after you.” He opened the door.

I didn’t know what I was expecting. A metal table with a body covered by a piece of plastic and a bare pair of feet sticking out, labeled Jane Doe per every crime show I’d ever seen, or something. Instead, there was a simple black casket on a white draped dais. The lid opened at a hinge in the middle so only the upper body was visible. A white sheet covered it.

Curtis glanced at me, then stepped forward. I followed him. Henry remained by the door, but more out of respect than not wanting to go near because I could feel how he was poised to jump to my aid should I need it. It was comforting as well as a little annoying, but it did the trick. When Curtis looked at me again, I nodded, and he lifted the sheet enough for me to see the face. He was careful to keep everything else covered, even her throat.

The woman was maybe mid-twenties. There were burn marks on her right cheek but apart from that, she wasn’t scarred. I didn’t know about the state of the rest of her body, but then, I didn’t want to know. Her brown hair was cropped short. It was thick like mine but slightly wavy. I’d expected much worse and somehow that made it even more terrible. This was a person. An individual who’d had a life and a future, only not anymore. She was young enough both her parents would most likely still be alive, perhaps out of their minds with worry.

I gasped and stepped back, squeezing my eyes shut as I frantically shook my head. “I don’t know her,” I choked out, and the sheriff replaced the sheet. Someone took my elbow, and I was led out of the room.

“You have some weird ideas as to what counts as vacation,” Henry said, and then added, “Sit tight for a minute.” He pushed me down on a hard beige couch in the foyer.

“Wait,” I said, ashamed of how wobbly I sounded, but I didn’t want to be left alone. “Where are you going?”

Pressing a hand to the side of my neck, Henry bent down and looked me in the eye. “Jay, I’ll be right back. Just sit tight, okay?” I nodded. It was all I could manage at that moment.

Less than a minute later, Henry and the sheriff reappeared, Henry saying, “I don’t know her either. I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t think you would,” Curtis sighed, voice hoarse with regret, and I realized he probably didn’t see an awful lot of bodies up here either. “It was a long shot, but… we might never know who she was.”

I stood. “Were there any signs of a struggle? Was she—”

“Jason,” Henry said urgently, his fingers around my bicep, tightening.

“I have to know,” I snapped.

“No, nothing. From what the coroner could tell, she died from smoke inhalation.” I sagged with relief. Maybe she had just been stranded, looking for shelter. “The fire expert is going out to the farm tomorrow. He was supposed to go earlier, but with this awful weather, they’ve had their hands full. Maybe we’ll know more once we figure out where the fire started. Go home, Mr. Wood. Get some rest. Come by the office to sign some papers before you leave town.” Curtis put his hat on, tipped it at Henry, and left us to it.

“Well, that sucked.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Henry said, voice gentle as he steered me outside. Dusk crept along the sky in the shape of a large, threatening cloud, chilling the already freezing air. Underneath the darkness was a strip of fire-red sunlight, fierce and desperate, a final struggle before night took over. I knew these kinds of sunsets. We got them in Traverse City too. It was after the storm; tomorrow would dawn crisp and clear again, a new day with a new beginning, one step closer to spring.

Henry opened the car door for me, and I climbed into the passenger seat. “Buckle up,” he softly said, and shut the door.

Eyes closed, I leaned my forehead against the soothing cold of the window. It was hard to believe only an hour or two ago, Henry’s mouth on mine had made me feel I could stand between him and an apocalypse. Now, the window was the only thing keeping me propped up, and I said nothing the entire ride home. I felt wrecked and awful and sick, and all I wanted was sleep.

Chapter 7

W
HEN
H
ENRY
pushed the button underneath his rearview mirror to open the garage door, the automatic lights in the drive came on.

“Look, the power’s back,” he said as his phone rang. No need to sleep here tonight, then. The call went through the pickup’s sound system. “McCavanaugh.”

“Henry, it’s Susie. We just got a four-year-old Labrador in with a broken leg. It’s a complicated fracture, and I could use your help on this one.”

Henry gave me an apologetic smile, and I waved my assent or whatever he was looking for. “Give me half an hour,” he said and rang off. To me, he added, “I’m sorry about that.”

“Not at all, it’s your job. I’m the one keeping you from it.” He opened his mouth but only sighed and shook his head. The car rolled into the garage, and Henry got out to grab the groceries.

“Leave them by the door.” I grabbed my new clothes from the backseat. “I’ll put them away. Go rescue puppies and injured gay men in tiny cars.”

When he looked like he’d protest, I narrowed my eyes at him and he gave in. “Call me if you need anything,” he said, climbing back into the Avalanche. “Anything at all.”

“Henry—” I stood by his car door, ready to close it.

“I’m serious.” He
was
serious. I could tell by the way his jaw flexed.

“Okay.”

He relaxed again and reached out a hand. For a second, I thought he’d kiss me, but he stroked my cheek with the back of his knuckles. It was such an endearing and affectionate gesture, more intimate almost than the kiss I’d half expected; it left me uncomfortable, and I took a step back. “Don’t worry about me. I have baking to do.”

Henry grinned. “Cheesecake.”

I laughed. “Cheesecake,” I agreed, shut the door, and watched him drive away.

The grocery bags were heavy. Henry was that eco-friendly guy with his own bags, and while that cut my trips back and forth in half, they were filled to the brim.

In truth, I felt like crawling into bed and forgetting about the world, but I knew as soon as I tried to shut down my mind, all I’d be thinking about was that girl, the farm, and the way I stood on the brink of something that could hurt Henry and myself in the process.

So baking it was, even though my pain levels steadily crept up the scale toward frowny-face. The meds were in my bag, but they’d have to wait until I was done since I had to concentrate on some of this stuff.

The
boules de Berlin
were by far the most complicated, so that’s what I started with. While the dough for those was rising, I made dark chocolate pistachio nut fudge and set it in the fridge to cool so I could cut it later. As the dough for the
boules de Berlin
went through its second rise, I pondered the ingredients I had left. Teenage Henry—Mac—had had a partiality for cheesecake that clearly hadn’t weakened with time, so I made a vanilla cream cheesecake with cookie crust.

And because Henry looked like a cookie kind of guy, I whipped together a large skillet-baked chocolate chip cookie while I was at it.

By the time I was lifting the
boules
out of the oil, I was too hot. I’d already shrugged off the sweater and was working in my T-shirt. The dull ache in my chest and ribs was becoming sharp whenever I had to lift or turn. Usually, I would do this all day long: proof I wasn’t back to my usual self yet.