Page 85 of The Witch

I’ve got to find a brush or comb—that’s my best bet. Except that isn’t so easy. There definitely isn’t one anywhere in sight. But I didn’t see one in the bathroom either, so she’s got to have one somewhere. I mean, the woman has very long hair that she keeps in an immaculate bun. She must brush it somehow.

I start opening drawers as quickly as I can. She has a vanity table much like the one in Caroline’s bedroom, and when I open the top drawer—eureka!—there’s a brush.

I pull it out and investigate the bristles. Well, this is the cleanest brush I have ever seen in my entire life. Did she just buy this five minutes ago? I cannot believe I am looking at a brush that she’s been using for weeks or months, and it does not have even one strand of hair on it. It seems impossible.

This is hopeless. How am I supposed to get a DNA test when this woman doesn’t leave any trace of herself behind? I might be better off trying to swab her mouth while she sleeps.

Just as I’m about to give up, my eyes fall on a little wastepaper basket under the vanity table. I glance at the door then get on my hands and knees and look inside.

Hair! I can’t even believe it! There’s a small tangle of hair, clearly recently removed from the brush, right in the center of the basket. I reach into the basket to grab the hair, and just as I do, I hear footsteps on the stairs.

Shit.

I quickly shove the snatch of hair into the plastic baggie, and I put the whole thing in the pocket of my hoodie. I try to stand up so abruptly, I bash my head on the surface of the vanity table, hard enough to almost give me a concussion. I curse to myself and crawl out from under the table, rubbing the back of my head.

The footsteps are getting louder. I can either hide in here, hoping it’s just my grandmother and she’ll pass by, or I can try to slip out. If it’s Ethel, coming back for something in her room, I don’t know how I will explain being here. Maybe I can sneak out before whoever it is gets to the top of the stairs.

As quietly as I can, I slip out of Ethel’s bedroom. I close the door behind me, just as Mick reaches the top of the stairs. He blinks in surprise when he sees me.

“Julia,” he says, although sounding guilty like I caught him doing something, instead of vice versa. “I thought you were out.”

“I’m on my way out soon,” I say. “I just needed to grab something from my room.”

Mick looks over his shoulder down the hallway, which is where my room is located. I couldn’t possibly be any farther away from it.

“And use the bathroom,” I add.

He gives me a funny look, but he doesn’t say anything. I hope he doesn’t mention this to Ethel, but even if he does, it’s not like she’ll know what I was doing here. I’ll give the hair to Henry to run the DNA test, and then I’ll have the entire truth, whether she wants me to or not.

63

1692

CAROLINE

It is after dusk when we hear footsteps above us.

It is late for dinner, but that has become typical. The sun dropped in the sky many hours ago, and my stomach has been rumbling painfully. I am so famished that I will likely feel compelled to do whatever Strickland requires of me for a chance to eat the food he offers. I believe this is why he makes us wait—in hopes of breeding desperation.

By the light of the torch, I can see Jonas’s eyes raise skyward from where he is perched on his bed. “That is the deputy,” he notes.

“Yes.”

When Jonas smiles, there is a malice in his eyes that I haven’t seen since the day I arrived. I feel suddenly unsettled as he rises to his feet, stepping closer to the bars of his cell.

“I never told you,” he says, “what I discussed with Hitty Atkins.”

I frown, recalling the conversation. “You said you spoke of me.”

“We did,” he confirms. “She told me of your friendship. But that is not the only thing she told me about you.”

“What do you mean?”

Then we hear it. The sound of the cellar door opening one floor above us. The deputy will be here any moment with our dinners. I am suddenly desperate to hear what Hitty said, before the deputy’s prying ears can intrude.

“She told me the truth about you,” Jonas says, the volume of his voice loud enough that I nearly scold him to hush. “She told me who you really are.”

“Who I really am?”