Girl One(64)

“Is this about Margaret? Really?” Cate demanded. “Because I think this is a power play. You just want to show that you know what’s best. And who are you, Thomas Abbott? I understand why Josie’s looking for her mom, and why Isabelle’s here, but I can’t get my head around you—you talked to Margaret one time? That gives you some authority here?”

Isabelle was inside the house, watching from the window. The fighting crashed over me in waves. I kept thinking of my mother. Her voice on the answering machine.

“Josie trusts me,” Tom said, tight. “I’ve been doing everything I can to get Margaret home safely. Everything. I’m helping you find the Homesteaders.”

“You give us addresses? Big deal. You know, the yellow pages can do that too,” Cate snapped. “Last I checked, the yellow pages didn’t rat people out, so they’re starting to seem like a better deal compared to you.”

“This was a mutual decision,” Tom said. “A careful decision. Talk to Josie. She trusts me.”

A scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself. Morrow only trusts you because—”

“Cate,” I said, reminding her not to reveal Emily’s secret, but she’d stopped anyway. Down the street, the low rumble of an engine. Cate turned, eyes burning.

“Don’t tell them I’m here,” she said. “I’m going to wait this shitshow out.”

A police car was approaching, and right behind it a truck, their lights catching me in a glare so blinding that I turned away. The vehicles pulled into the driveway. I stood in the spotlight for a second too long, unable to see anything, the world gone white.

The engines fell silent, the headlights fading, winking out. As I blinked to clear the hectic spots of color from my vision, there came the heavy slam of a car door, echoed by two more. Multiple silhouettes were moving toward us in a slow pack. More men than I’d expected. In this tiny town, I’d pictured one politely beleaguered officer.

“Hello, there.” A voice issuing from the shadows. “You the folks who called about something suspicious going on at the Stroud residence?”

“That’s me. Thanks for coming, gentlemen.” Tom hurried down the steps. Watching him reach out to shake hands with one of the men, I recognized that Tom had an automatic confidence with these strangers, perfectly at ease among them. It gave me a funny envy for a minute: how quickly he took control, seemingly without needing to prove anything to them.

Tom consulted with the others in voices too low for me to catch. Before I knew what was happening, two men had left the group, heading with Tom toward the back of the house. The beam of a flashlight bounced and swayed through the darkness before they vanished.

Two other men stayed behind. One stepped forward into the pool of light. He wore black shoes, so shiny I could almost see myself in them, an elongated and ghostly reflection. The man nodded at me in greeting. “Evening, miss.”

“Where are they going?”

“Your friend is taking some of the boys to show them what you found in the forest,” the man said. “In the meantime, we’re going to need to get your statements. How many of you are in there?”

Isabelle was watching us, her face a pale thumbprint against the glass. “Just the two of us,” I said. “Me and my friend.”

The man started up the stairs toward the Strouds’ small porch, the steps creaking under his weight. His voice was gentle, kind enough that I relaxed. “I hope you don’t mind if we step inside. If there’s somebody out here causing trouble,” he said, “then we don’t want to leave you young ladies all alone.”



* * *



Both men were dressed like they’d just arrived home from office jobs, crisp khaki pants, button-ups. I wondered about that, the lack of uniforms. The younger man, wearing an orange shirt, looked at Isabelle, his gaze catching on the white dress. It was folded over her arm, the bloodstain hidden from view. I caught his flinch of discomfort.

“First things first,” Black Shoes said. “Why are you ladies in the Strouds’ home? Are you friends with the girls who live here?”

That present tense gave me a brief flicker of hope, summoning the Strouds back into the world for a second. “We’re just acquaintances.”

“Acquaintances,” Black Shoes said. “The Stroud girls have lived here for nearly twenty years now. I can’t say they’ve ever had visitors before. Now, your friend out there said that you ladies have been stalked. Is that right? Somebody’s after you?”

Orange Shirt had wandered into the kitchen now, moving toward the fridge. He leaned in close to examine the photograph hanging on the fridge. Vera and Delilah smiling together.

“There’s a man,” I said. “He’s been following us for the past week. We’re worried that he might have gotten to the Strouds first.”

“Why would the same person be after the Stroud girls and after you?” Black Shoes went over to the couch and sat next to Isabelle. The glow of the TV screen flashed hot blue against his throat and chest.

“We come from the Homestead,” Isabelle said. “The same as Vera and Delilah.”

Orange Shirt twisted around at this. Black Shoes nodded, slowly, thoughtfully. “Both of you?” Black Shoes asked, gesturing toward me and Isabelle.