Page 80 of Luck of the Devil

I shook my head. “She didn’t tell me anything, really, other than you and your parents didn’t want to see me.”

She gasped, clearly caught off guard, but then she shook her head, sorrow filling her eyes. “That damn Sarah Jane. Of course she did.”

I was sure this had to come as a shock, but then again, it sounded like my aunt knew my mother was manipulative. Just maybe not to this extent.

“Not only that,” my grandmother said in righteous anger, “Sarah Jane told her we didn’t want anything to do with her because we blamed her father for Andi’s death.”

Hannah didn’t look as outraged as I’d expected.

Did she think my father had something to do with Andi’s kidnapping, or did she just hold a tight grudge? I wanted to know but didn’t want to offend her. So I stuck with a response that was not only true, but hopefully reconciliatory.

“I’m sorry.”

“Honey,” she said, her back stiffening. “You have nothin’ to say you’re sorry for. This is all your mother’s doin’.”

She had a point, but I was sorry nonetheless.

“You said you only spoke with her a few times after the birthday party,” I said. “Did she cut you off when she cut off Grandma and Grandpa or before?”

She released a bitter laugh. “Before. I saw her here at Mom and Dad’s a few times after the party, but soon she stopped coming back at all. Mom and Dad went down there, but I got married, and well, I knew I wasn’t wanted, so I just didn’t go.”

I nodded. I couldn’t say I blamed her.

“Plus, she showed no interest in my kids, so that was definitely the end of that. I felt sorry for her after everything that happened to Andi, but after an animal repeatedly bites you, you learn to leave it alone.”

I couldn’t blame her for that either.

She made a face and picked up a piece of bread off her plate, then smushed it together as though considering something. After she took a deep breath, she said in a rush, “Which is why I was so surprised when she called me a few weeks ago.”

My heart skipped a beat. “She called you?”

“She did what?” my grandmother screeched.

“Do you remember exactly what day?” Malcolm asked, his body tense.

Hannah paused and seemed to consider it. “Two weeks ago. It was a Wednesday night.”

The night the two men broke in and confronted my mother.

My grandmother was still upset. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Hannah ignored my grandmother’s questions and kept her focus on me. “Her call was totally out of the blue, like late on a weeknight. Very unusual for her.”

“When you say late,” I said. “How late?”

“Dang near close to midnight,” Hannah said. “Your uncle Buster was dead to the world, but I was bakin’ cookies for my Becca’s school fundraiser, which, of course, she didn’t tell me about until about nine o’clock that night.” She leaned her head toward me and lowered her voice. “I should have made her stay up and bake ’em herself, but she had a chemistry test the next day, and she’s basically bombing chemistry.” She stopped, realizing she was getting off topic. “Anyway, it startled me when the home phone rang. I mean, who uses landlines anymore? But Buster insists we keep it. So I answered, ready to give the person a piece of my mind for nearly wakin’ up my husband, who gets cranky if he doesn’t get a quality eight hours of sleep, when I heard her voice on the line, saying, ‘Hannah, I’m sorry to be callin’ so late. Please don’t hang up.’”

“She didn’t identify herself?” I asked.

She chuckled. “Listen to you, sounding like a cop.”

“Hannah,” my grandfather gently admonished.

“Oh, sorry,” she said with a sheepish look. “I tend to get off track like that. In any case, no, she did not identify herself.” She snickered. “But I’d know her voice anywhere. If she’d called in the daytime when I had more wits about me, I might have hung up, but I admit I was curious.”

“What did she say?” I asked.

“She said she was going to send me something in the mail and asked me to please hang onto to it. She said she knew she had no right to ask, but the thing she was sending was for you.”