The Stillwater Girls(12)

This is news to me.

I want to ask him how large these withdrawals are, but I don’t want to give him any inkling that something isn’t right.

The combination of cake and wine in my belly suddenly feels like a bad decision. The trust is in my name, but Brant has all my passwords, as well as access to my online account. He could’ve transferred shovelfuls of money to God knows where, and I wouldn’t have noticed because I would have no reason to believe my husband would ever do such a thing. Not in this lifetime. Not in a million years.

I know he didn’t have the best of role models growing up, but it never stopped him from being kind and generous, honest and forthright.

He always left my money alone—or so I thought.

They say the apple never falls far from the tree. It’s a horrid, tired cliché, but I can’t help but wonder if it applies in this case.

He might be Brant Gideon, but he’s still a Gideon.

Mom returns with Dad’s glasses in her hands, and he pulls his phone from the coffee table, picking up where he left off, which tells me Mom knows nothing about this and Dad is trying to protect my dignity because he believes something is amiss in my marriage.

If he only knew . . .

Gathering empty cake plates and silverware, I carry them to the kitchen without a word, thankful that my mother’s return meant not having to finish this conversation with my father.

I rinse dishes in the sink a moment later, my hands trembling and eyes clouding with the burn of hot tears. As soon as my parents turn in for the night, I’ll log in to my account and check into these withdrawals. As far as I’m aware, Brant hasn’t made any new purchases. He hasn’t rolled into the driveway in a flashy new car or gifted me with new diamonds.

Hell, even the suit he wore to the Bellhaus Museum the other week was two years old.

Nothing about any of this makes sense.

The only plausible explanation is that the money—my money—is buying his mistress’s silence.

I scream.

But only in my head . . . where no one else can hear it.





CHAPTER 9

WREN

The dip of my bed and pull of my blanket stir me from a deep, winter sleep and a dream that I was quite enjoying because it was nothing like this cold, dark cabin. Mama was there. And Evie. It was warm, and we were playing ring-around-the-rosy outside.

But the more I come to, the more that dream disappears from my memory, and the more I’m aware of the fact that we are still alone.

Sage’s body slides next to mine, followed by the repositioning of the layers of quilts, and then her arm wraps over my body, her fingertips icy. A small shiver runs through me until I get warm again . . . or at least, warm enough. I tuck the covers around us, running my hand along her shivering arm, but the lack of goose bumps tells me she isn’t cold—she’s scared.

Someone knocked on our door last night. We waited two hours before so much as looking out the window, and when we were sure the visitor had left, I ran to the henhouse—knife in hand—to retrieve the shotgun.

It was a sixty-foot sprint there and another sixty feet back, and while I didn’t take time to check things out, it didn’t seem like anything had been disturbed.

Perhaps we were imagining the knock? Perhaps it was the pop and crackle of the fire timed just so, or maybe an animal used our door as a scratching post?

It isn’t long before the faint snores of my sister fill my left eardrum, and I find myself jealous of her once again.

As fatigued as I’ve been lately, I still struggle to fall asleep some nights, having to stare at the ceiling and count the ticks of the clock on the wall until I can’t focus any longer. Some nights I’ve counted well past two thousand. Used to be I’d stay up and draw beside the fire on nights I couldn’t sleep, but I wore my graphite pencils down to stubs, and we ran out of sketching paper shortly after Mama and Evie left.

Sometimes I want to draw so badly my fingers ache.

Those nights are pure torture.

Pulling in a frigid breath, I let it go and watch the clouds that form around me. Pitching myself up carefully, I rub my blurry eyes and try to focus on the dying fire in the hearth across the room.

Sage forgot to tend to the fire before bed.

Again.

Flinging the covers off us, I grab a couple of small logs and a poker and somehow, in my sleepy haze, manage to revive the fire.

Sliding my hands together, I place my palms toward the heat, and when I can no longer see my breath in the dark, I return to bed.

“I’m sorry, Wren,” Sage whispers, eyes half-shut.

“It’s okay. Go back to sleep.”

I climb in beside her and press my body against hers, tucking my arm under hers. Sage’s hair smells like Mama’s milky lavender soap, and while I should find comfort in that, it only makes me miss her more.

Closing my eyes, I try again to fall asleep, only the moment I get comfortable, three knocks at the door fill our space.

I’d have almost thought I was having a bad dream if it weren’t for Sage sitting up in bed, her eyes wide as saucers. She pulls the covers to her chin, trembling, and when she tries to say something, I clap my hand over her face, silencing her.

The knocks fill our cabin once more, this time harder, faster.

“I know someone’s in there.” The visitor’s voice is deep, muffled by the wood that separates us, but I’m startled into action the second he pounds his fists against it a third time.