Page 151 of Cinder
School drop-off is loud and bright and full of the usual chaos. Kids weave between parents, with backpacks that are far too big for their shoulders, and someone’s little brother is crying because he doesn’t want to leave.
Elle chatters beside me the entire walk from the car, explaining a complicated playground drama involving a missing glitter pen and a betrayal of epic proportions. I nod in the right places, squeeze her hand, smile when she looks up at me for confirmation that yes, glitter pen theft is a serious offence.
Because that’s the thing. This is her world, and I will protect it for her.
She doesn’t need to know about all the painful adult situations swirling around her, just out of reach. If the biggest turmoil in her life is whether Cora is going to replace Olivia’s glitter pen over the weekend, then I’m doing my job right.
The gates are already open, and we wander through, Elle’s hand in mine.
That’s when I see movement. A woman, across the street.
She’s standing just off to the side of the entrance, not close enough to be part of the drop-off flow, but not far enough to look accidental. She’s wearing jeans and an oversized cardigan. Her brown hair is pulled back in a way that looks hurried but deliberate.
And all she’s doing is watching.
My steps slow without me meaning to. It’s not what she’s wearing, or that she looks wild or unwell. She looks fine. Put together, almost. A little thinner than she probably once was.
It’s the stillness of her that feels wrong in a place this loud.
My stomach drops because I realize I’ve never asked what Stacey looks like. It hits me sharp and stupid. I know her name and her history, I know the pain she left behind.
But I’ve never seen her face.
I lick my lips and crouch in front of Elle, smoothing her hair back. “Go on in, bug. I’ll see you this afternoon.”
“Okay, bye, Penny! Love you to Pluto!” She runs through the gates without a second thought, her backpack jiggling against her back, and I watch her until she darts through the school doors, laughing with a friend.
Then I stand up casually, and my hand slips into my pocket to pull out my phone.
Me:What does Stacey look like?
The text feels ridiculous the second I send it, but three dots appear almost immediately.
Evan:Brown hair. About your height. Scar on her chin from when she fell off a bike as a kid.
Evan:I'll send a photo.
A second later, one comes through. It’s old, you can tell by the way Elle is barely more than a baby in her arms. Stacey is younger and fuller in the face, smiling in a way that feels genuine.
I look up from the screen to the woman standing nearby, who turns her head slightly.
Brown hair. Same height. There’s a faint pale line on her chin, barely noticeable unless you’re looking for it. And she’s looking straight at me.
Stacey.
She approaches before I can decide whether to leave or call Evan first, and her smile is cautious but practiced.
“Hello,” she says lightly, as if we’ve met before and I’ve just forgotten. “It’s such a nice morning in Maplewood, isn’t it?”
Up close, I can see the faint shadows under her eyes, the way her hands flex around her cardigan like she’s trying to keep them steady.
“Oh,” I reply, keeping my tone even. “Yes, it’s a lovely town.”
“It is.” Her gaze flicks over my shoulder toward the gates. “My daughter Elle goes there.”
There’s a small beat in my chest. It’s a strange, uneasy feeling, because she’s telling me as though she didn’t just watch me walk Elle into the gates myself.
“I’m Penny,” I say. “I’m Elle’s nanny.”
