The Stillwater Girls(31)

This is the only way.

“I know you’re scared, Sage,” I whisper, “but we have to keep going.”

She dries her tears once more and locks her dark eyes on mine. “How much longer?”

Exhaling, I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

Pushing herself off the ground, she dusts off her coat, and I do the same, my joints tightening and the backs of my heels burning like fire. I didn’t know how badly my feet were hurting until we stopped moving.

“You want a drink of water?” I ask, digging around in the stranger’s bag. We haven’t stopped for food and drink except once tonight, when Sage had to relieve herself. It was then that I found small packets of nuts and seeds, dried berries and raisins buried deep in the stranger’s bag. Pulling out one of the many canteens the man had packed over the past few days, I unscrew the lid and hand it over. “Here. Quick.”

The sky has lightened since we stopped, and the sun should be up soon. The thought of losing our cover of darkness makes my stomach churn, but I force it away.

Sage brings the water to her lips before hesitating.

“Hurry,” I tell her, glancing up at the darkness that fades to baby blue.

“Wren.” Her voice is a cracked murmur, and her slender fingers grip my shoulder. “Look.”

Sage’s arm lifts, her finger pointed, and I follow her gaze toward a break in the forest where a large structure sits, so real, so clear. There’s a porch along the side facing us. Bright lights, almost like little kerosene lamps but brighter, flank the shiny glass windows. We must have missed it before, when the sun had yet to rise.

“Come on.” I slink her limp arm around my shoulders and brace her exhausted body as we tromp over snapped twigs and rotting leaves and fallen pine cones.

The closer we get, the more enormous the structure becomes. Mama always said everyone’s homesteads were different, some being humbler than others, but until this moment, I could only ever imagine variations of our cabin.

But this . . . this is not a cabin.

With its straight lines and polished exterior and abundance of windows, I wouldn’t know what to call it.

Leading my sister to the property’s edge, I emerge from the dark cocoon of the Stillwater Forest. Hand in hand, we amble toward a walkway made of stone that leads straight to the door of an unfamiliar homestead.

The only thing I can do now is pray that the people who live here are good people who do nice things and don’t hurt others.

I would never forgive myself if I led us out of a lion’s den and into a bobcat’s lair.





CHAPTER 22

NICOLETTE

Standing in front of the bathroom sink, I stare at a stranger’s reflection, tracing my fingertips along the bags forming beneath her bloodshot eyes. If I didn’t know this woman, I might feel sorry for her, but I’ve never been a fan of self-pity.

Exhaustion paints my face in unflattering colors, but it’s nothing a cold compress can’t soothe and a little concealer can’t hide.

I stayed up way too late last night, poring over photographs and recalling happier times, masochistically trying to figure out if I could have seen this coming and if I somehow chose to ignore it.

Sleep came before I was able to make a determination.

While Brant clearly knows who this girl is and has chosen to hide her photo from me, my mother always said it’s dangerous to walk around making assumptions. But those eyes . . . those sea-glass eyes that match Brant’s fleck for fleck . . . I can’t get them out of my head.

Cupping a handful of lukewarm water between my palms, I rinse my face and pat my skin dry before heading downstairs for a cup of coffee.

I’ve stayed home from Brant’s work trips plenty of times over the course of our marriage and for various reasons, but this particular instance feels different. The echoes in our home are a little more pronounced. The sound of my footsteps slightly louder. The howling of the wind more noticeable. All of it serves to remind me that it’s just me out here, alone, next to these deep woods and under this gray sky on a road that’s lucky to see any traffic besides our own on a typical day.

Pulling a mug from the cupboard, I slip my thumb through the ceramic handle and shuffle to the built-in coffee station in the butler’s pantry. Not in the mood for sweets, I take it black.

“Hello?”

A voice so meek I’m positive I’m imagining it floats through my home, nearly causing me to spill my drink, so I place it aside and angle my ear toward the next room. My breath suspends, and I brace myself against the soapstone pantry counter. Sometimes the wind howls so hard out here it can sound like someone’s at the door, but it’s always nothing.

No one comes here unless they have to.

And I certainly can’t blame them. We’re impossible to find. Hours from the city or any ounce of culture. When the weather’s bleak, it’s unbearably cold. When it’s warm, we’re surrounded by mosquitoes and cicadas chirruping so loud you need earmuffs to sleep at night.

My parents visit at scheduled increments, mostly birthdays or holidays, and Brant’s brother used to come for dinner every so often—before their falling-out several months ago.

Holding my breath, I listen to the nothingness that fills my house, trying to decide if that “hello” I heard a moment ago was nothing more than a figment of my imagination. I shake my head and reach for my coffee. Why I would even assume that someone would randomly show up at my door at 7:00 AM unannounced is beyond me.