The Stillwater Girls(48)

All I see now is darkness and the outline of trees, tall and spindly, fading to black in the distance.

That can’t have been a searcher . . .

They wouldn’t be alone in the woods at midnight.

And they certainly wouldn’t kill their light.

The light by the road flicks on—the city has it on some kind of energy-saving system, and I’ve yet to figure out its schedule in nearly ten years of living here. I shuffle toward the windows by the front door and manage to make out the outline of a person at the edge of our long driveway, standing perfectly still.

An object is clutched in his right hand—a flashlight, I presume—and there’s something hanging off his back—a bag?

His light clicks on a second later, and he points it at our garage.

Heat creeps up my neck, stopping at my ears, turning my face numb in the places my blood runs cold.

The figure moves closer, toward the house, but I don’t wait to see what he does next. Sprinting upstairs, I fling our bedroom door open and begin to shake my husband at the shoulders.

“Someone’s here,” I whisper once his eyes half open.

His arm lifts as I startle him out of his deep sleep, and he reaches for the lamp at his bedside table, but I stop him.

“There’s a man,” I say. “Outside. In our driveway.”

He sits up, more alert now, and I reach for my phone.

“I’m calling the police,” I say, dialing 911 with trembling fingers. “Don’t wake the girls.”

Brant flings the covers off his legs and grabs a pair of plaid pajama bottoms from a drawer, stepping into them and tying the drawstring around the waist before finding a clean white T-shirt.

Heading into his closet, he emerges a moment later, his handgun clutched at his side, and then he disappears into the hallway.

“Can you make sure there are no sirens?” I ask the dispatcher after explaining our emergency. “I have two girls here . . . I don’t want to wake them.”

“We typically don’t use sirens this time of night unless we have to, but I’ll make sure the officer knows,” she says.

When I finish the call, hands still shaking, Brant stands in the bedroom doorway.

“He’s gone,” he says. “I checked the security cameras. There’s no one out there. He must have left.”

Pressing my hand against my chest, I collapse on the foot of the bed. “I just thought . . . I didn’t know if it was the man . . . the one the girls say might be looking for them.”

“You did the right thing,” he says, dragging his hand through his thick, sandy-colored hair. “I’ll go downstairs and wait for the police. You should get some sleep, Nic.”

Brant lingers, studying me, and the tone of his voice holds a mix of exhaustion and condescension.

He doesn’t believe me.

A moment later, the door closes, and I’m alone in our room, sentenced to bed like a child.

I know what I saw.

I know someone was out there.





CHAPTER 31

WREN

My neck throbs, forcing me awake, and my lower back pops when I shift.

I fell asleep in the window seat last night.

Glancing down, I spot a blanket over my legs and my sketch pad on the floor. The bed is made, pillows fluffed, and covers pulled taut.

Sage must be downstairs already.

Heading to the bathroom, I wash up for breakfast before trekking downstairs. Brant and Nicolette’s whispered words play in my mind when I see them sitting across from one another at the kitchen table. Her slender fingers wrap around a white coffee mug, and his muscled shoulders fill out a white T-shirt as he laughs at something Sage said. When I look closer, I realize he’s showing her some black device that fits between his hands. Nicolette said he’s a photographer, so I imagine that’s his camera.

For someone who doesn’t want us here, it’s sure hard to tell.

He must be good at lying. Like Mama. He must be able to say things with such conviction and do things with such intention it makes it hard for anyone to deny them.

Still, I promised myself I’d make an effort . . . for Sage’s sake. For mine, too.

“Good morning,” I say, forcing a smile.

“Good morning, Wren.” Nicolette’s face lights, and she shoves her chair out from the table. “Hungry?”

“Nic makes the best blueberry waffles from scratch,” Brant says. “You have to try one.”

Ambling toward the stove where Nicolette prepares my plate with waffles, scrambled eggs flecked with dill, and thick, peppered bacon, I thank her before helping myself to a glass of orange juice and taking a seat at the table.

“Wren is an artist, too,” Sage says to Brant. The two of them look to me, and Brant lifts his brows.

“Oh, yeah? What’s your medium?” he asks.

“My what?”

“What do you use to create your art?” he clarifies.

“Oh, I draw,” I say. “Pencil and paper.”

“She’s really good,” Sage says, nibbling on a piece of crunchy bread.

“You have anything I can see?” he asks.

I think about the drawing of the lady with the yellow hair upstairs, but I don’t want to have to explain it. I’m not sure there’s anything I can say about it that won’t make me seem troubled or delusional.