The Stillwater Girls(14)

A white notification box fills the glass, indicating there’s an iMessage from a 212 number.

No preview.

No name attached to the contact.

Stealing a quick glance across the kitchen, I ensure once more that I’m completely alone before tapping in his password to unlock his device.

4 – 5 – 0 – 4

The anniversary of our first date.

The phone buzzes, prompting me to “try again.”

4 – 5 – 0 – 4

Try again, it tells me again.

This is odd. The four-number password we’ve used for everything has always been 4504. The keypad to the garage. The pin code to our debit cards. The password on our security system.

My brows meet, and I look to the stairs again before trying another password.

8 – 9 – 7 – 9

His birth date.

The phone buzzes, asking me to try again.

I try my birth date.

Our wedding anniversary.

Our house number.

The last four of his Social Security number.

His phone vibrates, and the screen notifies me that the device has been locked for five minutes due to too many log-in attempts.

Shit.

Pulling in a deep breath, I return to the island and finish prepping vegetables. And as Stevie Nicks croons about the stillness of remembering what you lost and what you had, I whisper a silent prayer that my husband stays upstairs at least five more minutes . . .





CHAPTER 11

WREN

Sage shivers as I wrap my arms around her. We’re hunched together on the edge of her bed in the corner of our cabin, covers wrapped around us as if they could possibly protect us from the strange monster who sits at our table and fusses with our kerosene lamp.

“Haven’t used one of these in ages,” he says as the flame begins to lick the inside of the glass.

The throw of light against his face highlight the marks and rivulets in his skin. Harsh lines and deep, scarred circles fill his cheeks and forehead and run from the corners of his nose to the sides of his mouth.

Mama told me once disease was rampant across our nation. She said people were always getting sick and dying, spreading horrible, incurable illnesses to one another.

I wonder if this man was sick once.

Or if he still is.

Shrugging out of his heavy jacket, he doesn’t take his eyes off us once. “Feels good in here. Warm.”

We don’t speak, and I don’t think Sage has blinked even once.

“Just you two out here?” he asks, crossing his legs and resting his booted ankle across his knee. He’s a good-size man, and sitting in our small wooden chairs exaggerates his proportions.

Sage trembles, and I squeeze her tight.

“Seems awful strange to come across two young ladies, alone, in the middle of the woods,” he says, slightly chuckling. “Sure no one else lives with you?”

I don’t answer.

“You two got names?” he asks, peeling his hat off his head. His hair is dark and matted, like it hasn’t been washed for a while, and he rakes his thick fingers through it, which only serves to make it worse. “How old are you?”

We continue in our silent standstill. He’s a stranger. An intruder. We owe him nothing, and we don’t have to answer his questions.

Leaning to the side, the man reaches to his back pocket, pulling something out and setting it on the table with a hard clunk. It’s black and shiny with a barrel, like our rifle. It must be a smaller type of gun.

“You girls ever seen one of these?” He picks it up again, angling it toward us. The black metal shines in the light of the kerosene lamp.

My jaw clenches, sending an ache up the side of my face, and my palms dampen against Sage’s nightdress. The prickle of sweat beneath my armpits follows next, and I realize I’ve yet to stop shaking since he barged in here and filled our home with his towering presence.

“Don’t suppose you have any plug-ins out here?” he asks, glancing around our cabin. Rising, he makes his way around the room, his heavy boots clomping and shuffling against the wood floor. “You guys use electricity?”

I’m not sure what he’s talking about. Whatever it is, I’ve never heard of it.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” the man says when he’s done examining our kitchen setup. “This is some Little House on the Prairie shit.”

I’ve read the books—the entire series is on our shelf in the corner—but I don’t understand what he means or why it’s so funny to him.

He collapses back into one of the kitchen chairs, and the spindles creak with his weight. I wish the stupid thing would just fall apart beneath him. If we could just disorient him for a moment, maybe we could run out of here. Then again, it’s cold outside, and we wouldn’t have time to properly lace our boots or secure our coats, and with no food or water or any idea of which direction to go, we’d likely die of hypothermia before the sun comes up.

“Where are your parents?” he asks, resting his shadowy jawline against his fist. From here, I see that his nails are caked in dirt, and I wonder how long he’s been journeying through the forest. “I know it isn’t just you two.”

The stranger pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Look. I don’t want to hurt you girls, but I’m looking for someone, and I feel like you could probably point me in the right direction, so if one of you doesn’t speak up . . .” He rises, his towering height blocking the warmth and glow of light from the fireplace. Tromping across the room, he makes his way to Sage’s bed and, without saying another word, reaches out toward us.