The Stillwater Girls(51)

“Is this one good?” Sage holds up a box of cinnamon-and-sugar squares. The tag in the corner claims there are twenty-eight grams of whole grains and nineteen essential vitamins and minerals in each serving.

You only live once . . .

“It is,” I say with a smile. “Wren, you find one you like?”

She reaches for a blue box with an orange tiger on the front, clutching it against her chest as she carries it to the cart.

Glancing at my watch, I tell them, “We should head to the checkout now.”

The girls follow, keeping close behind me, and we pick a lane that doesn’t have a wait but does have all the candy in the universe wrapped into one strategically crafted display case.

“Go ahead,” I say, pointing.

Wren shakes her head. “No, thank you.”

Sage grabs a box of grape Nerds, shaking it, and then grabs a package of Sour Skittles and a Mars bar.

“Nicolette?” Wren asks when we’re almost finished.

“Yes?” I answer, digging through my wallet for my debit card.

“I drew some sketches of Mama and Evie . . . do you think the police would want to take a look at them?”

I know the girls gave them the physical descriptions of their mother and sister that first day, but I don’t believe they’ve sat down with a sketch artist yet.

“Of course. Everything helps.”

She releases a harbored breath, smiling, and it breaks my heart that she felt the need to ask for permission. I can’t help but wonder how much of her life was under someone else’s thumb . . . and I’m beginning to think the answer is: all of it.

“How are you liking the studio?” I ask. It’s a miracle Brant opened that space to her. He rarely lets me set foot in there, but he seemed to have rolled out the red carpet for Wren.

And it’s funny, because I expected Wren to be hesitant with him, to be leery, but if anything, he’s brought out a warmth in her that wasn’t there before. I see it in her eyes, in her willingness to join in conversations instead of sitting back and being a fly on the wall.

“I love it,” she says, though her jovial expression fades as she leans in. “Nicolette?”

“Yes?”

“I heard you two fighting the other night.” Her eyes rest on mine.

My cheeks burn. “Oh . . . um . . . I’m so sorry . . . you know . . . marriage is a lot of work sometimes, and we don’t always see eye to eye. I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

“He doesn’t want us here, does he?” she asks.

“God, no,” I say, wishing we were in a place where I could wrap her in my arms and hug her until she could feel the sincerity in my tone. “I don’t want you to ever worry about that. Ever.”

Wren’s mouth twitches into a hint of a smile, and she nods. “Okay.”

“It’ll be two hundred eight dollars and ninety-four cents,” the woman running the cash register says. I insert my card into the chip reader, punching in my PIN as I feel the weight of her stare in our direction. “Hey, aren’t you girls those Stillwater Darlings? They find your family yet? Heard they found a body in the woods.”

She clucks her tongue, hunched over her lane and lending a sympathetic gaze. I’m sure she means well, but she has no idea what kind of fire she might have just ignited.

“That forest always creeped me out,” she says, shuddering as if she’s shaking off a spine-tingling chill. “Heard there were crazies living out there. Baby snatchers.”

The cash register door opens and shuts, and the woman yanks my receipt from the printer, handing it over.

“Got to love small-town lore.” I offer a polite smile.

The cashier peers over her nose at me, like she’s offended I’m brushing off her ridiculous nonsense.

“Thank you,” I say, refusing to answer her questions or engage in her rumor-fueled commentary. “Come on, girls.”

We load up in record time—many hands make light work. And when we’re finished, the girls climb in back and sit side by side behind me. Sage on the left, Wren on the right.

“Nicolette?” Sage asks once we merge onto the highway.

“Yes?” I meet her stare in the rearview mirror.

“Why did that lady call us the Stillwater Darlings?”

“It’s just some silly name some local news station came up with,” I say. “News agencies, they’re really in the business of selling ad space—advertisements—so they need these sensational stories and sensational headlines. But you know what? It’s a good thing in this case because the more people who hear about you, the more likely someone might come forward. Somebody somewhere knows something.”

The girls are quiet for a moment, and I tighten my fingers around the steering wheel while I wait for the inevitable next question.

“Why did she say they found a body in the woods?” Sage asks, her voice low and barely audible over the road noise.

Clearing my throat, I pull in a deep breath. This isn’t how I wanted to tell them or when I wanted to tell them—I was going to wait until we got home so I could sit them down, but it seems the choice has been made for me already.

“The police did find a body,” I say. “But they haven’t identified it yet. They’ll tell us as soon as they know something, I promise.”