The Stillwater Girls(62)

I don’t know if that’s true, but I do know those are the only words she needs to hear right now.

Heading downstairs, we take a seat on the sofa. I grab my latest book off the coffee table, and Sage holds the baby doll I made her the other week, staring ahead in complete silence.

“Wren?” she asks.

“Yeah?”

“What’s going to happen to you after this?”

Glancing to the side so she doesn’t see the well of tears rimming my eyes, I say, “I don’t know.”

“Nic, they’re here,” Brant calls from the kitchen.

Nicolette strides toward the entryway, and my sister reaches for my hand. Her palm is hot and damp.

A moment later the sound of footsteps and voices carries toward us, and when Brant and Nicolette step aside, a man and woman, both on the smaller side and slender, much like Sage, stand frozen by the front door.

“Mark.” The woman cups her hands over the lower half of her face, eyes squinting over her hands like she’s about to cry. “It’s her. It’s Emma.”

His lower lip quivers, and he places his hands on her shoulders, giving them a squeeze.

“Please. Come in,” Brant reminds them since they haven’t taken another step. “Make yourselves at home.”

Sage’s mother falls to her knees in front of us, her hands clinging to Sage’s hips, then lifting to her shoulders, then her hair, as if she needs to feel that she’s real and not a mirage. Her dad is more reserved, standing back and trying his hardest to be strong even though his eyes tell a different story.

“You were just a baby,” her mother says, eyes searching her daughter’s. “We were at the park here in town—in Stillwater Hills. I’d set you down on a yellow blanket and given you your three o’clock bottle, and then I went to push your brothers on the swings. I was only gone a minute . . . when I came back . . . you were gone.” Fat tears slide down her pale cheeks, and she dabs at them with the back of her hand. “Just like that. Nothing left but that yellow blanket.”

Sage offers an apologetic smile, even though none of this is her fault. I wonder if she feels a connection to her mother? If she can feel the pain of being missed?

“We looked for you for years,” the mom continues. “And finally, it got to be too much. Your father took a job in Vermont. We needed to get away from Stillwater Hills, start fresh. Even the police told us to stop looking after several years, that we were wasting our time.”

She reaches for Sage’s face again, her fingertips grazing Sage’s skin like she’s a delicate china doll.

“You have two brothers back home,” she says with a gentle smile. “They can’t wait to meet you. And you have grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins.”

Despite the weight sinking into my chest and the burn in my eyes, I’m happy for her.

I am.

“We’ll be staying in town with your grandparents for the next few weeks,” the mother tells her. “Dr. Pettigrew thought it’d be best if we transitioned you back into the family gradually, maybe with some counseling and some family therapy?” She looks to me. “I know how close you are to your sister, and we don’t want you to think we’re taking you away from her and never looking back.” She turns back to Sage. “I promise you, Emma—Sage—your sister will always be your sister. We’ll do everything we can to make sure you can see her anytime you want.”

“Thank you.” Sage’s voice is a breathy squeak.

“Would you like to meet the rest of your family?” her father asks, his hands squeezing his wife’s shoulders as if the anticipation of her answer is more than he can bear.

Sage’s eyes fill with tears once more—but these tears are happy ones. I think. And she says nothing, but I know what she’s wanting.

“Go,” I say, fighting watering eyes with a smile. “Be with them.”

“You were right, Wren. You were right this whole time,” she says, throwing her arms around me. “Everything’s going to be okay.”





CHAPTER 44

NICOLETTE

Brant slides his phone into his pocket. “That was Beth. Remember that survivalist guy she hired?”

“Yes.”

“He’s on his way over. Guess he just touched base with her an hour ago and he’s in the area, so he wants to stop by and go over his findings face-to-face.”

I clean up what’s left of our supper dishes and wipe down the counters. Wren’s in the next room, nose buried in her tenth book this week, and Sage is in town spending time with her family. It’s been five days since they reunited. They’ve been picking her up around eight every morning and bringing her home just past dinnertime, though as she grows more comfortable with them, she might start staying overnight at her grandparents’. For now, our house is still her landing pad, a safe, familiar place for her to recuperate from all that has happened. As exciting and chaotic as this time is for her, Dr. Pettigrew says having Wren to come home to is paramount to her successful transition.

“When’s he going to be here?” I ask.

Brant glances out the window by the table. “Now.”

Smoothing my hands down my sides, I clear my throat and head to the door. Brant follows.