The Stillwater Girls(53)

Taking a seat on the bed again, I reach for my phone, attempting to steady it in my shaking hand as I accept that there’s only one thing I can do here.

I have to call her.

Clearly, freezing the account and dropping hints that I know about the “fraudulent” activity has done nothing to deter him from sneaking around behind my back, so it’s come to this.

Pressing *67 first, I dial her number and hold my breath.

Four rings later, I’m met with a greeting: “You’ve reached Beth. Leave a message.”

Beth . . .

Is that who my husband fathered a daughter with?

Striding across the room, I fling the door open and march toward our master suite. Digging into his sock drawer, I reach to the very back, beneath the organizer tray and the silky black dress socks he rarely wears . . . only there’s nothing.

I pull everything out, lining it up haphazardly on the dresser top until the entire drawer is vacant—and that’s exactly what it is. Vacant.

The photo of the girl is gone.

My stomach bubbles, and bile burns my throat. Running to the bathroom, I kneel at the toilet, dry heaving until my middle is in knots and my lungs are gasping for air.

I need to stop digging and prying and delaying the inevitable all in the name of finding stone-cold evidence. How much more proof do I need? What am I waiting for? Evidence that I’m wrong? That this is all a bad dream?

There’s a reason he’s been pilfering my money away, hiding this girl from me, and speaking to a woman named Beth every Friday morning while I’m gone.

And I’m going to find out—from the source himself.

With a single wretch, I lose the contents of my stomach. My dignity and my pride follow as I wipe the burning bile from the corners of my mouth with a wad of toilet paper.

So this is how it ends.

We won’t end up pleasantly plump, white-haired retirees spoiled by a tropical climate.

We’ll end up going our separate ways, him running back to New York to be with the little family he created when I was none the wiser and me starting over, alone, emotionally devastated.

The beep of the alarm chime on the front door tells me he’s back. Hurrying to our bedroom, I shove his socks back into place and ensure they’re as neat and aligned as they were before I ransacked the drawer.

A moment later, I give myself a once-over in the dresser mirror, smooth my hair into place, and head downstairs to finally face the truth.





CHAPTER 37

WREN

Lying on the sofa in what Nicolette calls “the family room,” I page through one of her paperback books. In this one, a woman exacts revenge on her husband for cheating on her; she fakes her own “kidnapping” and death and tries to frame him for it.

My fingers tingle as I devour each page, unable to read it fast enough.

I’ve never read anything so clever and sharp, and I’d never known the concept of “kidnapping” until I found it between these pages.

This is exactly the kind of book Mama would’ve burned in the hearth, but as long as I’m reading, as long as I’m lost between these pages, I don’t have to think about the body they found in the woods.

While my eyes scan the next page, I find myself wondering if Mama would’ve done something like this Amy character.

I decided earlier today that my memories about the house with the soft floors that tickled my feet and the flower walls—the ones Mama said were false—were real. And if I squeeze my eyes tight enough and concentrate, I can almost hear the shrill ring of a yellow phone hanging on a wall in a kitchen. It made the same sound Brant’s iPhone makes when someone calls him.

The house in my recollections had compartments, rooms with doors—like Nicolette’s, only smaller. It wasn’t one giant room like our cabin. And I had my own room, with pink curtains and a white bed with something over the top of it. Some kind of fabric maybe? I’m not sure what it was, but it made me feel safe and protected.

How could I envision something like that if I’d never seen it before?

It had to have been real.

There’s no other explanation.

Just thinking about it sends a tightness to my chest and a fullness throughout the rest of my body—unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.

I don’t even know what it means. I just know it’s real, and Mama’s not here anymore to tell me that it isn’t.

Returning to my book, I flip to the next page only to hear the sound of Brant’s voice.

He’s home.

I place my book on the little table beside the sofa and leave the family room, finding him in the hallway hanging up his jacket in a closet.

“What did you do with my sketches?” I ask my burning question.

Turning toward me, he winks. “Ah. Was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

And then he smiles all the way from his mouth to his eyes. I don’t.

“Where are they?” I ask.

“I was hoping to surprise you,” he says, stepping toward me, arms out and palms up. “Took them into town to get them framed. Should be ready by Monday.”

“Why?” My fingers drum against my sides.

“Why? Are you serious? Wren, your drawings are incredible. I don’t think you realize how talented you are. Your work deserves to be archived and showcased.”

Cocking my head and squinting, I study him.