The Stillwater Girls(41)

“We should be at the boutique in about an hour,” I say as I pad into the next room, passing the stairs and glancing up. The girls are supposed to be getting ready, but the house is so quiet I can hardly tell they’re here.

I expected teenagers to be louder.

But these two aren’t typical teenagers in the slightest. They’re simply little humans, suspended in their own reality.

“I’ll see you soon,” Dr. Pettigrew says before hanging up. When I get a chance today, I’m going to have to talk to her about how best to introduce the girls to Brant. They seem to be fearful of men, and from what I understand, they’d never seen one until that man broke into their home and held them captive.

Why a man would randomly come across their home—a home that no one knew existed—and proceed to hold them captive for a number of days using nothing but threats . . .

He didn’t hurt them. Didn’t abuse or assault them sexually or otherwise. But he was going to take them somewhere . . .

Even the local police are scratching their heads, which isn’t to say a lot because landing a case like this hasn’t happened in the hundred-and-fifty-year history of the department, but still . . .

A large man with dark hair and marks on his face would stick out like a sore thumb in a town with a population of two thousand, and yet no one around here has ever seen or heard of anyone remotely fitting that description.

The other day, Deputy May briefly mentioned looking into a couple of missing-children cold cases from years ago, saying they were trying to match up ages and descriptions, but she said it could be a lengthy process. Besides, Wren’s age doesn’t appear to fit either of the profiles. And while Sage claims to be a teenager, her appearance is closer to that of a twelve-year-old.

Heading upstairs to check on the girls, I knock on the guest room door, which is already open.

“Girls?” I call when there’s no answer.

“In here,” Wren says from the bathroom.

“We should get going soon. Dr. Pettigrew is going to meet us there.” I check my watch.

Glancing toward Sage, I watch as she brushes her teeth in front of the mirror, my clothes hanging off her tiny frame and her dark hair sopping wet, soaking the collar of her shirt. It’s thirty degrees out—I can’t let her go outside like this.

“Sage, would you mind if I braided your hair?” I offer. “It would look so pretty in a French braid . . . then we could get it off your shoulders. It’s a little chilly outside . . . I’d hate for you to get sick.”

She places her toothbrush back in the holder before meeting my gaze in the mirror’s reflection, and then she nods.

“Wren, I can braid your hair, too, if you’d like?” I offer. I don’t wait for her to respond before I head to my room, returning with hair ties and a can of aerosol hair spray.

Fifteen minutes later, I’ve braided their hair and led them down to the shoe closet, pulling out tennis shoes that are two sizes too big for each of them, but they’re the only thing that will work because at least we can tie the laces tight enough to hold them on.

Grabbing my keys off the console by the back door, I jingle them in my hands. The girls are surprisingly not as nervous as I expected them to be. This will only be the second time they’ve ventured into town in their lives, and they’ve never set foot in a shop or store.

It’s a peculiar sight, these two in their baggy clothes and sopping-wet braids and still hollowed-out expressions. There’s a little more color and life in their complexions than there was a couple of days ago, but they still remind me of abandoned baby bunnies, always together, always with a cagey glint in their shiny eyes.

“Shall we?” I ask, pointing toward the garage entrance. The two follow me, sneakers shuffling against the hardwood floors. When we get to the car, I grab the doors for them. “Don’t forget your seat belts.”

I watch as they tug and pull their restraints into place and wait for the satisfying click that ensures they’re safely buckled.

Climbing into the driver’s seat a moment later, I start the engine, glancing into the rearview mirror, where Wren is seated, staring toward Brant’s parked Tesla beside us.

“You’ll be meeting my husband soon,” I tell her, realizing he comes home in two days. “But only if you’re ready.”

The chime of my phone fills the car speakers while Brant’s name flashes on the control center screen.

Speak of the devil.

I press the button on the dash to transfer the call from Bluetooth to my device so he’s not on speakerphone, and I put in an earbud.

“Hey,” I answer as I back out of the driveway.

“Nic,” he says, voice groggy as if he just woke up. “How’s, uh . . . how’s everything going?”

“Great. Better than expected, actually.”

“Listen. I’m sorry about last night,” he says, exhaling. I’m not surprised he’s apologizing. Brant hates conflict—or at least the Brant I know does. “I was a little blindsided. To say the least.”

How does it feel, Brant?

“Understandable.” I pull onto the highway, headed into town, going easy on the gas. On the way home from the hospital yesterday, I noticed they tensed up and grabbed each other’s hand anytime the car went above thirty miles per hour or hit a pothole.