The Stillwater Girls(52)

We drive three miles before anyone speaks again.

“When do you think they’ll know if it’s Mama or Evie?” Wren asks. There’s a strain in her voice, her tone deflated.

“Sweetheart, I’ll tell you as soon as I hear something. I promise.”

Slowing as I approach my turn, I glance back for a second only to spot their skinny little fingers laced together. Wren stares out the window. The remaining ride home is silent, save for the low-volume drone of the seventies rock station playing on the satellite radio.

As soon as we pull into the driveway, I back into the garage and pop the trunk. Brant’s car is gone; his side of the garage is vacant. And only when the girls and I are carrying bags in do I remember the area code 212 phone calls on Fridays between nine and ten in the morning.

“Why don’t you two go relax for a bit?” I ask, hoping they don’t sense the distraction in my tone.

Sage plops down at the kitchen table, her three packages of candy displayed before her like prized treasures. Wren disappears around the corner, the tromp of her footsteps going upstairs and dissipating into nothing, only to return a moment later.

“Nicolette,” she says, breathless and eyes wide.

“What is it?” I place the gallon of skim milk in my hand on the counter. “Wren, what’s wrong?”

“My drawings,” she says. “I left them in Brant’s studio. They’re gone. The ones in my room, too. They’re all . . . gone.”





CHAPTER 35

WREN

He took them.

I know he did.

But why? What could Brant possibly want with sketches of Evie and Mama?

“Where do you think he is?” I ask Nicolette, who’s standing next to the counter.

“I don’t know, sweetheart. Maybe he went for a run?” She folds a paper bag and places it aside.

She lifts a container of milk off the counter and slides it onto a shelf in the refrigerator, her back to me. Maybe she doesn’t think this is a big deal, but it’s a big deal to me—especially after the way he looked at my drawing of Evie earlier and then left as if nothing had happened.

“When do you think he’ll be back?” I ask.

Nicolette shuts the refrigerator door, her hand lingering on the handle and her back still toward me. “He’s never gone very long. I’m sure any minute now.”

Her answer doesn’t quiet my mind the way I wish it would.

“Are you sure you didn’t misplace them?” Nicolette reaches for another bag, retrieving items and arranging them on the counter. “Not saying I don’t believe you, but I don’t know why Brant would take something from your room, something so . . . personal.”

I watch Sage, who’s in her own little world, ripping through colorful packages and shoving candied bits into her trap like they’re going to disappear if she doesn’t eat them fast enough. It reminds me of the way she is with snow candy.

“We’ll ask him when he gets back,” Nicolette says when she turns and realizes I haven’t moved an inch. “I’m sure he’s got a perfectly good explanation.”

Something in her tone doesn’t let me believe her.

I don’t think I can trust him.

I don’t think he’s one of the good ones.





CHAPTER 36

NICOLETTE

Perched on the edge of the bed in one of our spare rooms, I glance out the window that overlooks the driveway from the second floor, my phone pressed against my ear as I wait on hold with our cell carrier. I need to see when Brant gets back.

It’s been easy to let the girls become a distraction from the issues at hand, but when Wren came to me a short while ago saying Brant took some drawings from her room, I tried my best to pretend it wasn’t a big deal, that I was sure there was a logical explanation, but the truth eluded me.

That isn’t something Brant would do—not the Brant I know.

“Hi, yes,” I say when a customer service rep finally comes on the line. “I’m needing to check and see what the last five outgoing calls were on one of our lines.”

The woman on the other end is silent at first, maybe judging me, but I don’t care.

“The passcode on the account?” she asks.

“Gideon777,” I say.

“And which line were you wanting to know about?”

“The one ending in three-five-six-two,” I say, my palm clutching the phone.

“All right. You have a pen and paper handy?”

“Ready,” I say, reaching for the leather-bound day planner and pen that I’d tucked under my arm on the way upstairs.

“Most recent one is two-one-two . . .” she says, rattling off that same New York number that littered last month’s phone statement. The lady spouts off the rest, all of them occurring last night, and none of them being suspect.

“Thank you,” I say, hanging up in the middle of her asking me if I’d answer a five-question survey once we disconnect.

He called her.

He called her while I was in town with the girls.

I toss the phone on the bed and stare at the number. Dragging my hands through my hair, I pace the room, swallowing gulps of air and trying to figure out how I’m going to bring this up and when and what’s going to happen when I do.