Elliot isn’t like the others. The men of whom she speaks. He will keep our secrets.
Later, in bed, it takes me a long while to fall asleep, but when I do, I dream of the women who walked these floors before me. My mother and grandmothers, the ones I know of and the ones I never will. The women who moved through the shadows of Foxglove, hidden and safe, who led their daughters through tunnels, carried them in silence from unnamed danger.
The women who trusted the wrong people.
They were secret keepers. All of them.
Tonight, the secrets rest with me, and I vow—to myself and to Foxglove—to learn from their mistakes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CORINNE WILDE - PRESENT DAY
In the kitchen, Lewis puts on a kettle of water as I pace. He finds a bag of chamomile tea in the drawer without me needing to ask.
“Maybe we should call the police. They should be patrolling the highway,” I say. “Watching for her car, just in case.”
He takes a moment to respond. “I don’t want them to pull her over. It would scare her.”
“We have to do something.”
“Wearedoing something.” His voice is soft as he watches me with concern. “We’re calling everyone we know, and we’re waiting to hear from her.”
“I don’t do…waiting.”
The corners of his lips quiver, fighting a smile. “I’m aware.”
“I’m just scared.”
He crosses the space between us, gathering me in his arms without warning. Somehow, it’s the last thing I want and everything I need all at once. I rest my head on his shoulder, breathing in the warm, salty scent of him. The scent of my home.
The home that once was.
I step back quickly. It’s too much. This is all too much.
“Are you okay? Did I?—”
“I need to go back into town,” I tell him. I just need to get out of this house.
“I’ll come with you.”
“No. No. You stay here.”
I take a step toward the door as my phone vibrates. I jump, pulling it from my pocket to check the screen, praying it’s her.
It’s not, but Greta’s name is a welcome distraction.
“It’s Greta.” I read the text message. “She made it to Mom’s. Said the entire house is empty. All of her lights are off, and no one answered the door. They must be out. She’s heading to our hou—yourhouse—next.”
The anxiety under my skin is like a thousand tiny spiders preventing me from standing still. I shove my phone back into my pocket and race toward the door, whipping it open. I just need to do something.
I stop when I see the man standing at the door.
Two men.
Conrad and a man I don’t recognize. He’s stockier than Conrad, but around the same age. They’re both close to my mom’s age or older, if I had to guess. They’re clad in raincoats, positively drenched from the storm. My eyes dart between them as I take in the sight.
“Did you find her?” I ask.
