Page 84 of All These Beautiful Strangers

He stopped dead when he saw me. As I raised my hand to wave hello at him, his face took on an ugly, terrifying look.

“What the hell is she doing here?” he asked.

My heart plummeted into my stomach. What?

Grandma stopped mid–pancake flip and turned to face him. “Now, Hank, this is my house, and I say who’s welcome here, and Charlotte is always welcome.”

“After the shit she pulled?” Uncle Hank spat. He pointed a finger at me; his eyes were wild with anger. “She’s not Grace, Ma. She may look like her, but she’s not her. She’s one of them. She’s always going to be one of them.”

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“You know exactly what you did,” Uncle Hank said, seething. “I thought you were that little girl I remembered. But you’re not. You grew up to be as slimy and manipulative as any of them. I trusted you. God, I trusted you. What a mistake that was. But I won’t make it again.”

There were tears stinging the backs of my eyes. What could I have possibly done since the last time I was here to make him hate me so much? I was sure it had to be some kind of misunderstanding.

“Uncle Hank—” I said, but he held up a hand to stop me.

“Don’t you dare,” Uncle Hank said. “Don’t cry like we’ve hurt you, when you don’t give a damn about us. When you lied to my face.”

“I don’t—” I looked at Grandma for help. She was clutching her elbows, hugging her arms to her chest. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“You went to him after I told you not to,” Uncle Hank said.

“Who?” I asked.

“Your father,” Uncle Hank said.

“I didn’t.”

“Then why did your uncle come to me? How did he know about the pictures?”

“Uncle Teddy contacted you?” I asked.

“He demanded I give him the pictures I found,” Uncle Hank said. “Threatened to charge me with breaking and entering if I didn’t.”

“I didn’t know,” I said. “I didn’t know he would do that.”

“Just get out,” Uncle Hank said. “Whatever you’ve come for, we’re not interested. You didn’t come here for us. You’re here because you want something, and whatever it is, we’re not about to give it to you.”

I looked from him to my grandmother. I waited for her to say something in my defense but she didn’t. She just looked at me like I had broken her heart.

“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” I said, and I rushed past Uncle Hank and out the front door before my legs could give out from under me.

In the car, I told myself I wouldn’t cry. I drove to the only other place I thought I might still be welcome in Hillsborough: the Rhodeses’ house.

It was around seven thirty in the morning. I knew it was a little early to be stopping by unannounced, but I rang the doorbell anyway.

Greyson answered. “Hey there, Martha Stewart,” he said.

I was trying really hard not to lose it. There was a huge lump in my throat, and I felt heavy and weighed down. They hate you now, I told myself. They hate you.

It was difficult not to feel the huge disparity between the warmth and love I had experienced the last time I was at my grandparents’ house and the utter coldness with which I had been chased from the house this time. And my grandmother had just stood there. She’d just stood there and let Uncle Hank say those awful things and she looked at me like . . . like she agreed with him.

I would never be welcome there again. I would never sit in the den with everyone and watch a football game on a Friday night. I would never sleep over in my mother’s bed. I would never belong there again.

“Charlie, are you okay?” Greyson asked. The humor and smile had slipped from his face, replaced by a look of concern.

“Is Claire here?” I asked. “I really need to talk to her.”