The Stillwater Girls(40)

Electricity is a strange concept.

I flip a switch. There’s light.

I press a button. My food is piping hot.

There’s even a machine that keeps food cold on one side and freezing cold on the other. Nicolette says food lasts much longer that way because she can control the temperature—unlike our root cellar.

“Would you like some help?” Sage offers, rising with slow intention.

Nicolette pauses, holding what appears to be a loaf of sliced bread wrapped in clear shiny film with the words “100% whole wheat” in bold green letters along the side.

“Only if you’d like to, sweetheart,” Nicolette says.

“She’s good in the kitchen,” I say. Though I’m not sure how good she’d be in a kitchen like this . . .

Sage tries to temper her excitement before bolting up from the chair and heading across the room.

“Do you have a spare apron?” she asks.

Nicolette reaches into a drawer to the left of the sink, retrieving a red gingham smock much like the one we had back home. I wince, fully expecting Sage to lose her merriment at the sight, but instead, she grabs it, tying it around her waist without giving it a thought.

I should’ve given her more credit. Sage has always been more resilient than I.

“Had you ever seen a toaster before?” Nicolette asks, sliding the shiny, rectangular box across her white countertops. Sage shakes her head, and Nicolette proceeds to explain how to make the warm, crunchy bread.

In a matter of minutes, breakfast is done, and the smells that fill the kitchen make my stomach rumble. Nicolette places our food on clean white plates with sprigs of parsley on the side. She said not to eat the parsley—that it’s only for looks, but I don’t know why someone would waste a perfectly good herb. If anything, I’ll use it as a breath freshener.

“How would you girls feel about going into town today?” Nicolette asks, pushing her plate away and reaching for her coffee. “We could get you both some new clothes. There are a couple of shops I think you’d like.”

She lifts her mug, examining us like she does. Part of me thinks we’re just as fascinating to her as she is to us. Everything about her is sweet and soft, and she smells like soap and flowers. I can’t help but feel we’re weeds in this beautiful garden of hers, but she doesn’t treat us that way.

“May I be excused?” I ask when I’m finished.

Nicolette takes a sip, brows lifted. “Of course.”

I carry my dish to the sink, eyeing a bottle of blue liquid marked “dish soap” alongside a yellow sponge. Twisting the faucet knob, I rinse my plate under the water, nearly scalding my hand when the water that spits out is burning hot. My elbow brushes against Nicolette, who’s suddenly standing behind me, and I jerk away.

“You don’t have to do that,” she says with a smile before pointing to a silver machine built into her cabinets. She reaches toward it, yanking open the door. “This is a dishwasher. We put our dirty dishes in here, pour some soap in the little container, then press this green button and shut the door. A few hours later . . . clean dishes.”

She slides the lower rack out and shows me where the plate goes. My hand still throbs from the hot water.

Convenience is wonderful until it isn’t.

“I should get ready,” I say, backing away.

Heading upstairs, I pass an image on the wall of Nicolette in an ivory gown, a man standing behind her dressed in black and white, his arms around her as he grins ear to ear. She mentioned she’s married and that her husband’s name is Brant and that we’ll meet him soon—as long as we’re ready—but she hadn’t shown me his picture.

There’s something familiar about him, something I can’t quite place. Glancing toward the kitchen, I hear Sage and Nicolette chatting and the clink of silverware, and I turn back to study Brant’s face once more.

Pulling in a sharp breath, I hold it, letting it burn in my chest as the realization comes to me.

It’s his eyes . . .

They’re the exact shade of sea-green as Evie’s.





CHAPTER 26

NICOLETTE

“Thank you so much for doing this,” I say over the phone to Dr. Pettigrew, the psychiatrist who evaluated the girls at the hospital their first night. “I feel better knowing you’re there in case anything upsets them. And I could use someone, you know, in case the media shows up. They’ve been leaving us alone so far, but you just never know.”

“It’s really no problem,” she says. “It’s my day for rounds at the hospital, but I got someone to cover me for the morning, so it worked out. I just can’t stop thinking about those girls. I’ll help any way I can.”

The girls are dressed in various items pulled from my closet, all of which hang off their lanky frames. I thought about buying new clothes for them myself, but I haven’t the slightest idea what sizes they wear. The clothes they were wearing when they showed up were handmade. No size tags for obvious reasons. A short and protected shopping excursion seemed like the best way to handle this. Besides, it might be good for them to get out and interact with people who aren’t medical professionals or police officers. To get the smallest sample of true freedom. I can’t imagine forcing them to stay cooped up and hidden away in my house after they just escaped from a similar situation.