The Stillwater Girls(32)

Heading to the kitchen, I take a seat at the table and stare out the floor-to-ceiling window toward the sparse trees that surround our home.

In the springtime, the woods surrounding Stillwater Hills are full of life and perfectly formed by Mother Nature herself. They serve as home to the most magnificent flora and fauna: primroses and monarchs in the spring, golden chanterelle mushrooms in the summer, and plums and persimmons in the fall.

But in the winter? The forest is nothing more than a rotting, half-functioning wind block of the eyesore variety.

Brant always said everything has to die to be reborn again, but I beg to differ. There are plenty of places on this earth with lush green everything always, places where nothing dies because the sun refuses not to shine.

Lifting my mug, I take a sip.

“Hello?”

A splash of black liquid sloshes over the edge of my cup when I place it aside.

There’s a knock next.

Followed by an undeniable “Hello?” this time.

Steadying my breath, I step lightly toward the security system control center in the hallway, pressing the code and pulling up the camera views to check the outside of the house. The garage camera shows an empty driveway. The camera angled toward the backyard and the wraparound porch shows the same: nothing and no one. Pressing the front porch option, I squint, studying the two dark masses standing in front of my door until they come into focus.

Gasping, I cup a clammy hand over my chest.

Taking a closer look at the security camera, I zoom in on the faces of the two figures.

Girls.

The image of two young girls with hollowed eyes and gaunt faces, long, unkempt hair dripping down their shoulders, one blonde, one brunette, is as haunting as it is real. The blonde is taller but not by much, and her arm is hooked over the smaller one’s shoulders.

The camera’s focus isn’t the best in this light, a little grainy and delayed by two seconds, but it doesn’t take much to see they’re both shivering.

Three raps echo through the house, sending my heart knocking in my chest harder than before. This could be a setup. I’ve heard of dubious people feigning to be stranded motorists or pretending to be injured, all in an attempt to rob someone. There could be others hiding around the side of the house, out of sight of the cameras, well aware that I’d have to disarm the system in order to open the door, and that’s when they’d strike.

I try to assure myself that if anything happens, if these girls are simply lures and someone else tries to intrude, all I’d have to do is press a button on the keypad, the alarm will sound, and the police will be here in less than ten minutes.

Brant has a gun upstairs in a safe in his closet. It’s just a handgun, small enough to hide in his palms. I’ve never used it before, but it’s still a deterrent if it comes to that.

“We need help,” the voice from outside my door says. “Please . . .”

The temperature on the monitor’s screen reads twenty-three degrees—well below freezing.

I stare at the live footage, watching, paralyzed. Moments later, the smaller one presses her head against the other’s shoulder, her face wincing as if she’s in pain.

The fair-haired girl knocks again, this time harder.

Dragging in a heavy breath, I pad to the kitchen to grab my phone and dial 911.

“911, what’s your emergency?” The dispatcher answers on the first ring.

“Hi, yes, this is Nicolette Gideon,” I say, injecting all the calm I can muster into my tone. “Four seven nine Orchid Drive. There are two young girls outside on my doorstep asking for help. They appear to be . . . not well. Can you send someone right away, please?”

“Yes, Ms. Gideon,” she says, the faint sound of her keyboard clicking in the background. “Are they physically injured in any way?”

“I . . . I don’t know. I haven’t answered the door,” I say, knowing full well I’m putting my spinelessness out there. “I just woke up a little while ago and heard them outside asking for help. I live just outside of town, miles from the nearest neighbor. It’s so early, and this is so unusual. I guess I just wanted to be—”

Justifying my cowardice isn’t my finest moment.

“Ma’am, it’s fine. I’m sending someone out right now. We’ll send medical, too,” she says. “Stay put. And let me know if they leave, okay?”

“I will.” Heading to the door, I glance out the peephole and see that they’re still there.

“I’ll stay on the line until the responding officer arrives,” she says.

I clutch the phone against my chest, hands trembling so hard I almost drop it on the foyer floor.

The girls haven’t budged.

They’re not giving up, not leaving.

Desperation breeds resilience, but then again, so can evil.

From here, I get a better look at their clothes. Tattered, faded dresses with dirty hems protrude out from the bottom of their long, brown coats, and their feet are covered in stained boots.

I don’t know any teenagers around here who’d be caught dead dressing like that.

My hand clenches the doorknob, and every part of me wants to help them more than it wants to fear them. If Brant were here, he’d have opened the door by now. He’s fearless like that, and on top of that, he’s a people pleaser. He wants everyone to like him. He wants to be a hero. And there’s no better way to validate your worth than by helping people.