The Stillwater Girls(26)

Our yellow garden shovel stands, driven into the ground, the man’s meaty fists clenched around the rubber handle.

“Thought you could use this,” he says, his kindness equally appreciated and confusing. I’m not sure where he hid it on our property, but that’s the least of my concerns.

Rising, I clap the dirt off my hands before taking the shovel from him and sinking it into the small hole I’ve already made.

Over and over, I shovel heaps of dirt, piling it into one giant mound, and when I need to stop and take a break, I collapse on the ground and bury my head in my hands, letting the shovel fall at my side. My body aches, joints throbbing and muscles pulsing.

And then I hear the chink of the shovel against rocks and dirt once more.

The stranger has taken over for me . . .

He grunts with each dig, saying nothing.

I catch my breath, silent and watching.

And when he’s done, I have my answer.

There are no bones buried here, under the weeping willow, beside the flower bed.

It’s nothing but dirt.

Mama lied . . .

Mama lied.



Sage heats scraps of yesterday’s goat meat over the fire, and I pray we don’t get sick.

“Why don’t you let me take over for a bit?” I ask with a prying smile. Sage loves to cook, but I need to do this. It’s part of my plan. It’s the only way I’m going to get us out of here.

“But I like cooking,” she says.

“Sage,” I say under my breath, “you’re not used to cooking goat meat. Let me take it from here. Go and grab a can of green beans from the cellar.”

Wiping her hands on her apron, she gives me a cockeyed look before asking the stranger if she can go to the cellar. While they’re distracted, I lower the pan closer to the fire.

I need the smell of burnt meat.

I need smoke.

I need a reason to have to open the window above the sink.

My sister runs off to the cellar, and the stranger riffles through his bag. I’ve been paying closer attention lately to the things he keeps in there, and every so often, I watch him fill his empty canteens and jars with well water and pack them in his bag—the bag he needs in order to survive the forest.

Sage returns just as the meat over the fire begins to blacken and shrivel. My gaze moves from her to the stranger to the pan over the fire. A moment later, the meat begins to sizzle and pop, and it doesn’t take long until the cabin is filled with haze.

“Wren!” My sister runs toward the fire. “You’re burning it!”

I throw my hands in the air, shrieking, and run to the kitchen window, throwing open the sash and sliding the lower half up while the stranger gets the other windows. Sage fans the smoke away, and while the two of them are preoccupied, I swipe a finger full of goat’s-milk butter I’d intentionally left out and grease the window—a little trick I learned from this Bony-Legs book Mama used to read us.

Tonight when we leave, he won’t be able to hear the creak of the window as we slide up the frame.

“I’m so sorry,” I say when the chaos settles. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

The stranger huffs, shaking his head the way Mama does when Evie leaves her dominoes out or Sage forgets to clean up her puzzles.

Sage keeps a close watch on the meat this time, and I take the jar of green beans and begin preparing them . . . keeping the man’s portion separate.

Grabbing three tin plates from the shelf, I divvy up the cold beans—a quick heating over the flames should warm them enough—and I take good care to ensure his portion is sprinkled with the melatonin and valerian root I prepared earlier. I’d crushed them so fine the resulting powders were almost invisible, and with salt and pepper, they should be almost tasteless.

Watching the two of them from the corner of my eye, I ensure no one’s the wiser, and I get started.

If he finds out what I did . . . he’ll kill us both, I’m sure of it.



After dinner, the man grabs a book from his bag, some stubby paperback with huge letters on the front, and he rocks in a chair by the fire while we clean up.

Pulling a slate and piece of white chalk from between two dishes where I’d hidden it earlier, I write my sister a silent note: WE’RE LEAVING TONIGHT. AFTER HE FALLS ASLEEP.

Sage’s eyes grow wide and for a second she looks like she’s about to say something, but she stops herself, knowing better than to make a sound. And this is exactly why I waited until zero hour to tell her any of this. Had I told her earlier, she’d have slipped up or acted unusual all day, and he’d have been onto us.

I couldn’t risk it, not when our lives depend on it.

Swiping my hand across the slate, I erase the message and write another one: DRESS IN LAYERS UNDER YOUR NIGHTSHIRT. DON’T MAKE IT OBVIOUS.

I erase that one and scribble a new one: WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T MAKE A SOUND, DON’T QUESTION ME, AND JUST DO WHAT I SAY.

I run a wet rag across the chalkboard, removing all hints of words left behind, and I slide it behind the sink, out of sight, returning to the dishes as if we’d never stopped. By the time we’re finished, the man has stopped rocking in the chair long enough to release an audible yawn.

My breath halts as I observe him from the corner of my eye, watching as he creases the corner of his page and closes his book. A second later, he rises, stretching his arms over his head, and then he heads outside to relieve himself.