The Stillwater Girls(13)

Springing out of bed, I make a run for the shotgun above the door. Positioning the step stool in front of the door, I climb up, balancing myself as I reach for the gun.

If this stranger—this intruder—dares to step foot inside our home, I won’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

I have to protect Sage. Our home. Our belongings. Our life—or what’s left of it.

My fingertips barely graze the metal barrel when the lock on the door gives and it swings open, knocking into me, and I lose my footing, toppling to the wooden floor, no gun in hand.

A gust of winter wind fills our home, and Sage screams.

There’s a man in our house.





CHAPTER 10

NICOLETTE

I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I’ll know once I find it.

Brant’s closet is meticulous for a creative type. There’s order and organization and not a thing out of place. I’m sure he could locate his favorite cashmere sweater with his eyes closed, so I ensure that everything I touch or move goes back precisely the way I found it.

Scanning the shelves of folded jeans, the mirrored tray filled with his cologne staples—Botkier, Creed, and Burberry—and the drawer of neatly folded T-shirts and polos, I find nothing he hasn’t worn a dozen times already.

Chewing the corner of my lip, I stand in the center of the small room, under an understated crystal chandelier that makes his closet feel more like the men’s department at Barneys, and I release a defeated sigh.

He hasn’t changed his cologne or purchased new clothes. He hasn’t been working out any more than usual—opting to take his 5:00 AM runs and the occasional afternoon forest hike when he’s feeling sluggish.

Every article I’ve read in the past few weeks is filled with tips and checklists and surefire ways to know whether or not your partner is cheating . . . and so far, Brant checks off none of those boxes.

Aside from the photo of the girl—which is still there, I’ve made sure of that—the only red flag I’ve come across is the transferring of thousands of dollars over the past several months. Each of the transactions—which range from a couple grand to five grand or more—appears to be going into a joint savings account that I believed we’d closed earlier this year. I remember signing the papers, and I remember him saying he’d run to town and stop by the bank to take care of the rest.

He lied . . .

From what I can gather, he’s been making cash withdrawals from this savings account, and that’s where the paper trail ends.

“What are you doing in here, Nic?”

Brant’s voice echoes off the high ceiling and sends a quick tingle down my spine.

“Oh, my God,” I say, turning to face him. “You scared me.”

“Looking for something?” he asks, studying me. He must have shortened his morning run.

I’ve never been a good liar, which means I’m terrible at thinking on my feet.

“My Altuzarra belt,” I say. “The black one with the gold buckle. I can’t find it. Thought maybe it got placed in here with yours by mistake.”

Brant’s eyes search mine for an endless second, and then he strides away, moving across the hall to my half of our closet. When he returns, my black Altuzarra belt with the gold buckle is clenched in his fist.

He exhales through his nose. “This one?”

My mouth curls into a nonchalant smile. “Huh? I must have walked right by it.”

I take the belt from him, steady my hand on his shoulder, and rise on my toes to kiss him, quietly breathing in his scent as if I might smell her on him. But alas, he smells like . . . Brant. Like the leather car seats of his Tesla and the alcohol wipes he cleans his camera lenses with and the remnants of Vetiver Body Wash from this morning’s shower on his warm skin.

“I should start breakfast,” I say, my hand resting on his chest for a moment as I pass him.

His breaths are harder than normal, and his gaze is unusually penetrative. I can only imagine what he’s thinking. Either he’s wondering what I’m looking for, or he’s wondering why I’m looking for something in the first place.

Something tells me he knows the answer to both of those.

All these years together, I’ve never once snooped through any of his things.

I’ve never needed to.

Padding down the hall to the stairway, I bite my lip as I grip the banister and stop to digest what just happened.

I need to be more careful going forward . . . at least until I find my irrefutable evidence of whatever it is he’s doing behind my back, it’s important that I carry on like everything’s fine. The second he suspects I’m onto him, he’ll begin covering his tracks, and then I’ll never find what I’m looking for.

Making my way to the kitchen, I preheat the oven and begin pulling out and arranging ingredients along the marble island. Midway between dicing the onions and peppers, I take a moment to tap the music app on my phone and stream some Fleetwood Mac through the kitchen speakers.

Like just another ordinary day . . .

But the second I pass the charging station, I spot Brant’s phone plugged in to the wall. Glancing toward the bottom of the stairs, I ensure he’s nowhere in sight before tapping the home button to wake the screen. That website with all the cheating-spouse tips had listed “changed phone passwords” as one of the top red flags, but I’ve yet to find Brant’s phone without Brant nearby. The battery is low—almost dead. Was he on the phone for the last hour? The signal out here can be weak sometimes, depleting our batteries faster than usual if we talk on the phone too long.