The Stillwater Girls(33)

But that’s neither here nor there.

“No one’s here,” the little one says. “We should go.”

Checking my phone screen, I see it’s only been two minutes. It’ll be at least another eight before the police arrive.

Slipping my phone into the left breast pocket of my pajama top, I undo the locks on the door and give the door a gentle pull so as not to startle the girls.

And then I try not to gasp when I take in the disturbing sight before me—the tiny eyes and skin-and-bones features and matted hair sticking out from pilling knit caps. These girls are almost otherworldly and definitely not from around here, at least not that I can surmise.

The blonde one grips the dark-haired one tight, both of them trembling, though from fear or cold I’m not sure.

“H . . . hi,” she says, her pale-blue eyes wide and round. “I’m . . . s-sorry to bother you . . .”

Being face-to-face with them, I can’t help but find their appearances distracting. The little one stares, unblinking, and I scan the length of her torn patchwork coat, which has been darned and repaired with floral-printed fabric in several places. There’s a hole in the toe of her left boot, and a bit of her woolen sock pokes through. Her hair, limp and heavy with natural oils, hangs around her shoulders, tapering to ratted ends that stop past her elbows.

“W . . . we . . . need help,” the blonde says. I couldn’t begin to guess her age if I tried. She’s certainly much too small and shapeless to be an adult, but she’s far from a child. Same with the other girl, though there’s a sort of quiet, wide-eyed curiosity about her, like a sheltered child seeing everything for the first time.

Moving back, I motion for them to step inside. Holding hands, they cross the threshold of the front door and stand with gaping eyes in the center of our two-story foyer.

“What happened to you?” I ask as gently as possible. “Are you hurt? Do you know where your parents are? Are they looking for you?”

They look so young with their round, innocent eyes, and they haven’t stopped shaking despite the seventy-two degrees my thermostat is set at.

They remind me of abandoned baby bunnies . . . sad and sweet and destined to either thrive or die from shock.

“The police are on the way,” I say. “Come on in. Have a seat. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

I lock the door and head toward the kitchen, waving for them to follow. The girls stay several steps behind, but a moment later they stand in the doorway, glued at the hip, as I fill two glasses with water.

“You can have a seat over there.” I point to the table. “Are you hungry?”

They say nothing, but their gaunt faces tell me all I need to know. Heading into the pantry, I retrieve a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter. From the fridge, I grab strawberry jelly and a bowl of rinsed, seedless grapes.

“They’re sending an ambulance, too,” I say, fixing their toast and plucking green grapes from their vine. “In case you need medical attention.”

The girls haven’t said a single word since they stepped inside. They only stare at me with their careful, watchful gazes and clench their bony hands together as they shuffle to the table to take a seat.

“Are you hurt?” I ask again, placing their plates in front of them.

Their sunken eyes inspect the food, but they don’t touch it, at least not at first.

“It’s okay,” the older one whispers to the younger one. “You can eat it. She seems nice.”

Nothing about them leads me to believe they’re related. The little one has dark, pointed features, and the bigger one has bright, saffron-blonde hair; crystalline-blue, hooded eyes; a round face; and a spray of freckles over her nose.

A lump forms in my throat when I think that I might be sitting across from two victims of child trafficking. Perhaps they escaped? Perhaps they’ve never known another decent human being, and that’s why they’re so uncertain of me?

The faint wail of a police siren outside grows louder by the second. The little one is midbite when she stops and turns to the older one.

“It’s okay,” I tell them, placing my palms up. “It’s just the police. They’re here to help.”

My words don’t register, at least not on their heavy-lidded expressions. Their weary appearances lead me to believe they haven’t slept in ages. Maybe they’re out of it? Maybe they were drugged? Maybe they ran for days and days until they came across my house?

Whatever happened, I’m sure the police will get to the bottom of it.

Flashes of red and blue burst through my windows, and a swift rap at my door comes a few moments later.

Lifting a finger, I smile at the girls. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

Heading to the door, I yank it open and find myself standing face-to-face with a female sheriff’s deputy in head-to-toe khaki. Her hair is combed back into a low bun, and while the brown-gray of her hair hints at middle age, there isn’t so much as a trace of smile lines on her skin.

Removing her hat, she begins to speak, but I cut her off with, “They’re in here.”

Glancing toward the driveway before closing the door behind her, I spot the ambulance pulling in and crawling to a stop.

“Just this way.” I lead her to the kitchen, where the girls are inhaling the remains of their peanut butter and jelly toast. Their two water glasses, which were filled to the top a moment ago, are now empty. All that remains are their untouched grapes. “Girls, this is Deputy . . .” I glance at her name tag. “. . . Deputy May. She’s here to help you.”