The Stillwater Girls(54)

“How’d you know about the ones in my room?” I ask. As far as I know, he hasn’t stepped foot in the guest room I share with my sister.

He laughs through his nose, hands on his hips. “I was walking by. Door was open. Saw them lying there on the dresser . . . I’m sorry. If I’d have known this would upset you, I never would’ve done it.”

“What’s going on?” Nicolette stands at the bottom of the stairs, her dark-blue gaze passing between the two of us as her hand grips the railing. Her face is paler than usual, her hair out of place in some parts.

Brant turns to his wife. “I took her drawings into town to get them framed at the frame shop. Was trying to do something special . . . you know, artist to artist.”

She studies him, though I can’t tell if she believes him or not.

Turning back to me, he says, “Look. You can go into town with me to pick them up if you want.”

Exhaling, I let my arms fall to my side. If he was trying to do something special for me, then I’m being rude. After all, he did tell me not to be shy about showcasing my work.

I suppose after everything that’s come to light recently, it’s easy for me to cast doubt.

“I’m sorry,” I say, not wanting to cause trouble. “I overreacted. I get attached to my art, that’s all.”

“You and me both. Don’t even worry about it.” Brant swats his hand through the air before resting it at his hip. “Completely understand.”

Heading back to the family room, I leave the two of them at the bottom of the stairs by the coat closet, and I lose myself between the pages of a book where nothing is truly as it seems and no one is who they claim to be.

Thank goodness it’s fiction.





CHAPTER 38

NICOLETTE

If things were different, our weekend would be filled with things like me teaching the girls how to order pizza and how to play classic games like YAHTZEE, Monopoly, and Sorry! I’d teach them the marvels of a washer and dryer and introduce them to the last two decades’ worth of pop music. Somewhere along the line, we’d squeeze in a half dozen Disney movies while we paint each other’s nails and page through fashion magazines.

If things were different, I could give them back their childhood and adolescence, as much of it as possible and in as little time as possible because any day now, we’re going to find out about that body in the woods, and their young little lives could use a little less tragedy.

But instead, I’m standing face-to-face with my philandering husband.

“Hey,” he says, shoving his phone in his pocket.

Scanning the length of his jeans-and-polo outfit, I ask, “No run this morning?”

He shrugs. “Rest day.”

Folding my arms along my chest, I ask, “What are your plans now?”

He glances toward the stairs. “Just going to get some work done.”

My husband smiles before passing me and climbing the stairs. A moment later, I watch as he pulls his phone from his jeans, checking it quickly before sliding it back into his pocket.

The entire time I’ve known him, he’s always had to work in “airplane mode.” No internet, no WiFi, no phone calls.

No exceptions.

“Expecting an important call?” I ask.

He scoffs. “What?”

“You’re taking your phone to your studio.”

As he turns to face me completely, I catch the subtle flare of his nostrils. “Yes, actually. I am expecting a call.”

My skin is on fire and the room begins to spin, but I have to do this.

“From Beth? In New York?” I ask. “Oh, wait. You only talk to her on Friday mornings between nine and ten. While I’m not around. That’s right . . .”

“Nic . . .”

I don’t want to fight in earshot of the girls so I climb the stairs, pushing past him. If he’s got an ounce of good sense, he’ll follow me.

And he does.

As soon as we’re inside our room, I close the door and turn to him.

Panic isn’t just written on his face—it’s carved.

He’s been caught. It’s over. Our whole life together . . . done.

“When were you going to tell me?” I ask, fighting back tears.

“When I thought you’d be ready to hear the truth,” he says.

“Are you kidding me? Who are you to decide when I’m ready?”

“Because I know you, Nic,” he says. “And I know what you’ve been through.”

“For the love of God, I’m not a fucking Fabergé egg.” I lift my hands to my temples, squeezing my eyes shut for a moment. “How long?”

He begins to answer, but I cut him off.

“And why were you sending her money from my trust?” I ask.

“Because I depleted what savings I had left,” he says, collapsing on the edge of the bed and holding his head in his hands. He seems more exhausted than guilty. Maybe carrying a secret this heavy takes a toll on a man’s shoulders after a while, but at this point, I couldn’t care less.

As soon as I get my answers and we’re done here, I never want to see this man again, never want to so much as breathe his name or find him lingering anywhere in my thoughts.

“I don’t understand why you’ve no remorse,” I say, releasing an incredulous laugh. “What you’ve done here is . . . it’s beyond, Brant. It’s beyond anything I ever would’ve expected from you.”