The Stillwater Girls(43)

“Go ahead,” Monica says. “Try it on.”

I take a seat on the settee next to the doctor, and we wait forever before Wren emerges from behind the drapes, the blue gingham dress fitting her reedy frame perfectly, even giving the illusion of a girlish figure in parts.

“So?” I rise. “What do you think?”

With glassy eyes, she bites her lower lip before whispering, “I love it.”

Sage emerges from her room next, a pair of skinny jeans hanging off her and a button-down top that might look better on someone two or three times her age.

Tugging on her pants, Sage wrinkles her nose. “I don’t like these. They make me walk funny.”

Wren laughs. Then Sage. Spritely giggles fill the small shop.

It almost makes it easy to forget that the forest that surrounds our quaint little town is filled with police, search dogs, and volunteers, all combing through the thick trees and rough terrain in search of bodies dead or alive.

I’ve never seen such little spirits lifted so high, and it sends a squeeze to my chest. In this moment, I wholeheartedly believe everything’s going to be okay.

Monica prompts them to try on the next outfit, and they disappear behind the curtains once more. Grabbing my phone from my purse, I fire off a quick text to my hairstylist to see if she can fit the girls in for haircuts today.

A moment later, I clear my throat, leaning closer to Dr. Pettigrew. “My husband’s coming home tomorrow . . . He’s been gone for work, and they haven’t met him yet.”

The doctor turns her focus on me.

“They freaked out when they saw those male cops that morning,” I add. “And they made sure there were no male doctors or nurses treating them in the hospital.”

“That was a precaution,” Dr. Pettigrew says. “I don’t think they’re afraid of men so much as they’re afraid of the man who held them captive in their home. They’ll be fine. You’re a kind woman to take them in. I imagine your husband is just as kind as you are.”

Placing my palm over my beating heart, I offer a close-lipped smile. Her words both comfort and sadden me all at once.

Once upon a time, Brant was the kind of man who’d help stranded motorists and nurse baby birds back to health. He once stayed up all night long baking me a three-layer chocolate cake from a recipe he coerced out of my favorite New York bakeshop after the local bakery screwed up his order and we had company coming to town the next day for my birthday.

He used to fix my coffee for me after my postrun shower, and he’d treat me to fresh flowers every time he went into town. Always roses. Always white.

Once a year, he’d surprise me with a romantic getaway. I always knew it was coming, but I never knew when or where we were going. He’d simply wake me up on a random morning and tell me to pack my bag.

Recalling all the sweet things Brant used to do for me does nothing but paint a vivid picture of a hard truth: the man I’m married to isn’t the man I married.

And as soon as he comes home, I need to get back to finding out exactly who he is.

The last couple of days have provided a temporary and much-appreciated distraction from my personal chaos, but reality, much like a scorned ex-lover, will not be ignored.





CHAPTER 27

WREN

“Cut it off,” I tell the pretty lady as she drapes a black smock around my chest and shoulders and ties it behind my neck. It’s loud in here. And bright. And it smells like a hundred different kinds of those essential oils Mama would line her dresser with. Bottles upon bottles, all with paper labels and Mama’s handwriting. Tuberose. Gardenia. Pink pepper. Eucalyptus. Lemongrass. Orange blossom. “All of it.”

Our eyes catch in the mirror, and the woman runs her fingers through the wavelike bends from the French braid Nicolette placed in my wet hair this morning.

“Are you sure?” she asks, biting her lip before looking to Nicolette, who’s standing off to the side with my sister. “You have such beautiful—”

“I’m sure.” I sit taller, straighter, chin pointed as I stare at my reflection.

Mama let us cut our hair about once a year, and even then, she never allowed it to be above the middle of our backs.

“My darlings, long hair suits you better,” she would say, snipping at our fraying ends and every so often repositioning our heads. “It only accentuates your natural beauty.”

The more I’m around Nicolette, the more I see how controlling Mama was all these years. We never had any kind of a say in what we wore, what we ate, what time we went to bed, or how we kept our hair.

But with Nicolette, every decision is only ours.

There’s freedom in the way she lives. She’s not bound to anyone or anything. There are no silly rules. No irrational logic. No need to question anything. If she wants to do something, she does it, and that’s all there is to it.

If Mama were here, I’d ask her why she wouldn’t cut our hair. I can’t imagine it had much to do with protecting us from the evils she claimed lurked in a place that has, so far, treated us with nothing but kindness.

“Why don’t we take it to here?” The lady with the comb places her flattened palm at my shoulders. “Then you could still wear it up if you wanted?”

“That will be fine,” I say.

The woman leads me back to a chair attached to a washbasin, and she tells me she’s going to “shampoo” me. A moment later, a stream of warm water rains down my scalp, followed by the subtle scent of flowers as her fingertips massage my scalp.