The Stillwater Girls(50)

Holding up the creased slip of paper, I offer a quick smile, and we watch May return to her car.

“What do we tell them when they want to know why she was here?” I ask Brant.

He drags his palm against his bristled jaw, staring hard at the ground, lost in thought. “We’ll just tell them that they stopped by to let us know they’re still searching and that they located their cabin.”

“That woman in the woods . . . do you think it’s their mother?” I ask.

His eyes hold mine, and a chill breeze kisses my face.

“I don’t know, Nic,” he says. “All I know is it’s dangerous to assume things, especially when those assumptions turn out to be wrong.”





CHAPTER 33

WREN

The natural light flooding Brant’s studio the next afternoon warms my skin as I take in the sights beyond the glass. Before, it was simply a closed-off room behind a locked door, and I didn’t concern myself with what was behind it. Now I’ve been granted an all-access pass by Brant himself.

Three walls are nothing but windows, offering a panoramic view of a hilly portion of the forest, and it faces east, so the sunrise fills the room with warmth in the morning. I didn’t much care for the windows before, but this beautiful view makes me forget the dangers that lurk beyond the trees.

Three guitars rest on stands next to a leather chair in one corner, and beside them is what Brant called his “music setup.” I’ve never seen anyone play a musical instrument before. He said he’d play for me sometime.

Before he finished showing me around yesterday, he gave me one of his old “cell phones” and taught me how to listen to songs on it—any song in the world. When he asked me who my favorite artist was, I just shrugged, so he took the device out of my hand and told me he’d make me a playlist.

The only wall in here that isn’t covered in windows is covered in the most beautiful pictures, and Brant was sure to tell me there’s nothing wrong with taking pride in your work. He also says he’ll tell me about his “humble beginnings” one of these days.

It was the first time I’d really thought about Brant and Nicolette and who they were before. Where they came from. What their families were like.

Brant says everyone has a past. Everyone.

Earlier today, he ran into town for a couple of hours, and when he came back, he handed me a package of watercolor pencils and three small paintbrushes, with red, yellow, and blue handles.

It’s really hard not to like him.

I crumple a piece of sketch paper between my hands and toss it into a chicken-wire wastebasket. The music player next to me plays a song called “Pink Moon.” I can’t help but think of warm summer nights when I hear it. As soon as it finishes, I press the left arrow button to play it again, just how Brant showed me.

Mama got us a ukulele one year for Christmas, but Sage broke a string on it before anyone had a chance to learn to play it properly. No one seemed all that upset, and we never bothered to fix it after that. Music in our home was usually just me and Mama trying to harmonize and Sage warbling along with us while Evie plugged her ears.

But this . . . I could get used to.

Flipping to a fresh page in my sketchbook, I get to work. This time I’m drawing Evie—partly because I miss her and partly because I want Nicolette to give this to Deputy May. Maybe it could help them find her?

A half hour later, I set my pencils aside and massage my cramped hand before stretching my arms above my head. I straighten my spine and feel the relief of each pop and crack of my back. Pressing the square button on the phone, I silence the music. I’ve probably listened to “Pink Moon” about a dozen times now.

Holding up the image of Evie, I blink away the warm wetness that clouds my vision. I’ve colored in her creamy complexion, her rosy cheeks, and her green eyes, but now I need to grab a cup of water so I can use the paintbrush to soften the strokes and blend it together.

Rising from the stool, I turn to leave, nearly bumping into Brant. He reaches for my arm, steadying me so I don’t fall, and then he laughs.

“Sorry,” he says with a slight chuckle. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

His eyes skirt past my shoulder, landing on the notebook and the image of my sister.

His smile vanishes, and then he swallows. “Who is that, Wren?”

“Evie,” I say. “My other sister.”

Pallor washes over his face but only for a second. And just like that, his color returns.

Clearing his throat, he mumbles something about needing to find his thirty-millimeter lens, and a moment later, he’s gone.





CHAPTER 34

NICOLETTE

“You can have any one you want,” I say. “Just know the ones with the boring boxes are healthier, and the ones with the bright colors are full of sugar.”

The girls say nothing, staring with wide eyes down the cereal aisle at the Stillwater Grocery Mart.

We’ve been here for over an hour already, our excursion taking a little longer than usual because the girls are processing everything, accepting samples, asking questions, and reading packages to find out what’s inside.

I told them they could have anything they wanted. They’ve been deprived their entire lives, so I figured this was the least I could do, but so far the only things they’ve placed in the shopping cart are vegetables and oats and then cooking staples like molasses and brown sugar.