The Stillwater Girls(63)

“You must be Chuck,” my husband says when he answers.

The man standing on the other side is large, bearish almost, his face razor nicked and his hair shower damp. The scent of hotel soap wafts off him, barely covering his musky scent.

“Come on in.” I move out of the way, and the man begins to unbutton his coat as he passes the threshold. “Would you like something to drink?”

“No, thank you, ma’am,” he says, lifting a palm. A moment later he glances toward the family room, eyes landing on Wren. “Jesus.”

Before I have a chance to process what’s going on, our quiet Wren begins to scream, her legs scrambling as she climbs up the back of the sofa, trying to get as far away from him as possible.

“Don’t let him take me.” Wren drops her book, and I run to her side, taking her hand.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, wrapping my arms around her and pulling her down to a seat cushion.

“That’s him . . . the man who broke into our cabin and said he was going to take us.”

“Here. Come with me,” I say, guiding her to the next room. When I rub my palm against her back, I swear I can almost feel the erratic thumping of her little heart. “He’s an FBI contractor. A tracker. He was hired to find Evie. Wren, did he hurt you? Did he touch you in some way?”

She exhales, brows meeting. “No. He just said he was going to take us. And he kept asking about Mama.”

“I can imagine how traumatic that experience was for you and I don’t agree with his tactics, but I promise you, Wren, I won’t let him near you.”

Her eyes study mine, perhaps searching for the truth, and a moment later she nods.

“Why don’t you go upstairs for a bit?” I propose. “I’ll call for you when he’s gone.”

I watch her leave before heading back to the other room.

I take a seat across from Chuck, crossing my legs. “So? What do you have for us?”

His brawny physique fills the entirety of our leather club chair, and he pitches himself forward, like he’s unable to get comfortable.

Clearing his throat, he says, “I’m sure Beth told you I located the cabin.”

Brant nods. “Yes, this morning.”

“I was able to determine it was, in fact, the cabin of the woman I was looking for—but I couldn’t determine if your daughter was a part of that circus because the woman and the youngest girl were gone. The two older girls who were there thought I was going to kill them, so they wouldn’t tell me a damn thing.” His tone turns salty, and he pauses. “A few days in, they drugged me and snuck out of the cabin with my bag. Took me a bit longer to get back to town, thanks to some bad meat I was forced to eat since they stole my MREs. Sidelined me for a few days out there, and on top of that, it was a little hard without, you know . . . my bailout bag. Tarpaulins, compass, water purification tabs, canteen, flint . . . they grabbed it all, then ran. Left me for dead.”

He almost laughs, like he’s impressed, and then he stops himself.

“You terrified them,” I say. “Can you blame them for running away?”

“I have that effect on people. Anyway, I never would’ve hurt them. Was actually planning on taking them to town with me. They were going to die out there all alone, barely any food, winter setting in. So back to this, the only thing of interest I was able to find in the cabin were a couple of death certificates. Ray Sharp and Imogen Sharp. Both passed away about twenty years ago.”

“I’m sorry.” I stop him. “How did you know to look for Maggie Sharp in the first place?”

“Beth assigned me here to scope the place out after Brant got that first letter. Spent some time in your little town, talked to a lot of locals, asked about any recluses or any people to watch out for,” he says. “One person mentioned the name Maggie Sharp. Said she was a local second-grade teacher who lost her husband and daughter in some hit-and-run accident when they were walking home from the park. Guess she went crazy after that. Was never the same. Said she was a recluse, and then after a while, no one ever saw her again.”

“Maggie Sharp.” Brant says her name softly. “Never heard of her.”

Maggie Sharp.

The mental picture I had of the kind of woman she was distorts and softens, and I find it harder to picture a crazed, ill-intentioned woman and easier to picture a distraught, heartbroken mother who couldn’t save her child . . . but maybe she saw me and saw her second chance to save a child from what she perceived as harm?

I imagine two mothers, both traumatized, both thinking they were doing the right thing at the time, and my heart aches—for both of us.

“Anyway, a few weeks ago, I was at some little shop on your square, and I spot this guy buying a few random items—toothpaste, a comb, you know. The cashier asked if he wanted his usual order, said it was ready to go, and pointed to a stack with some floral-print fabric, crayons, stuff that clearly wasn’t for him. He told her he wouldn’t be needing those anymore and got the hell out of there. After that, I followed him home, set up some surveillance, monitored all the comings and goings. But it was only ever him. Guy was unquestionably a bachelor.” Chuck’s eyes light, and he leans forward. “Anyway, it wasn’t long after that, I watched him carrying a box of these little soaps tied in purple twine inside the supermarket. Guess he sold them there or something. Took a closer look at it and saw how pretty it was. There was no way that guy was making and selling artisanal goat-milk soaps, so right then and there I knew he was working with someone and—”