Page 66 of Saving Sparrow
“One’s empty. Pointless.”
It might have been empty, but I doubted it was pointless. “And the other one?”
“For an occasional visitor.” He chose his words wisely. Not an outright lie, perhaps, but not the whole truth. Something told me this “visitor” wasn’t a friend or family member stopping by from out of town.
“Enough questions,” he said in a clipped tone, raising his chin as if daring me to challenge that. I took a different approach.
“Elliott said he grew up in a religious community before moving here. He said his father worked for one of the elders.”
I’d never seen anything more frightening than the mocking smile that slowly spread across Sparrow’s face. I wasn’t even sure it qualified as a smile at all.
“Is that what he said?” It wasn’t a question meant to be answered, so I stayed quiet. “Elliott was born into a cult, and our father was the leader.”
The temperature in the dining room seemed to drop several more degrees, or maybe it was my blood that had gone ice cold. I kept my expression neutral while noting he’d saidElliottwas born into a cult, notwe. When and where had Sparrow been born? And why? Maybe he didn’t see his arrival as a birth.
I didn’t know where to go next. Sparrow was so fickle and too unpredictable. Would anything more trigger him into beating me to a bloody pulp? Or tying me to another piece of furniture? Maybe this time he’d take it a step further.
No, I’d pried into him and Elliott enough for one night. It was time I shared pieces of myself. Parts that my history with Elliott wouldn’t reveal, parts I hadn’t already shared with Sparrow as I sobbed upstairs.
He had yet to mention my earlier confessions, nor did he look at me with pity since I’d shown up for dinner. Maybe he didn’t even care, but I felt compelled to tell him more anyway.
“We were poor when my mother and Quentin’s father met. He’d been on a business trip, having dinner with some investors. She was his waitress.” I stared at a groove in the wooden tabletop, not wanting to see the possible look of disinterest in Sparrow’s gaze.
“We moved a lot, but all the apartments were the same. Tiny and cold. She rarely made enough money to keep the heat on or the electricity running. It wasn’t so bad during the day. At least I could see the rodents in the daytime. Our last apartment was infested with them.”
I glanced up at him, my heart pounding at his blank stare. But… he’d sat forward. It was barely noticeable, but he had, as though my story called to him in some way even he didn’t realize.
“The nights were cold and dark,” I whispered, phantom winter smoke billowing from my lips. “I couldn’t see them scurrying across my bed mat at night, but I could feel them crawling over my skin.” I stared through the archway into the kitchen at the darkness beyond the barred window over the sink. “The cold and the dark,” I breathed, thoughts growing distant. “I hated them both then. I still do now.”
“Someone should have protected you from all that,” Sparrow said, the shock of his words jolting me out of my memories. Was that what he did for Elliott? Protected him from whatever horrors he’d had to live through as a child?
“She did the best she could.” I waited for the stab of pain I normally felt when I brought her up. Other than the aches and pains I could account for since being here, I felt nothing. I guessed finally admitting out loud that she’d chosen to take her own life had healed something in me. In a strange way—one that I couldn’t quite articulate—I felt grateful to Sparrow for that.
“Quentin took over when she died. He protected me.” Saying his name made me want to cry again, but I wouldn’t lose precious moments with Sparrow to a breakdown. We didn’t feel like captor and prisoner in that moment, and who knew if we’d ever sit across from each other in this way again.
“The windows are old.” He gestured to the set of windows behind me. “I can’t let anyone in here to fix them.” Was this his way of apologizing for the house never being warm enough? Did my story prompt the apology masked as a random comment, the same way my confession about mymother’s death earned me an invitation to dinner? I was starting to think I could become an expert on Sparrow if I kept paying attention.
“I understand,” I said softly, glancing over my shoulder at the rattling panes beyond the bars. “You have to protect them.” And letting the wrong person in could put them all in danger.
I took a chance, asking one last question, hoping it was harmless enough not to annoy him.
“How long does the polar night last this close to the North Slope?”
“Months.”
How long willwebe here?I wanted to ask next, but didn’t want to hear him sneer about howwewouldn’t be going anywhere. I also didn’t want to run the risk of him informing me I still might not make it out of here alive.
“Your personalities couldn’t be more different,” I said carefully. “You’re dark, and he’s light. You’re unafraid, and Elliott’s timid, shy.”
“Did you have a problem with the way he was?” he snapped, and for once his aggression didn’t make me flinch. His protective nature reminded me of Quentin.
“No. The opposite, actually. He was innocent, sweet, and perfect, and he only got to be that way because he had you. So, thank you.” I didn’t know the full extent of what Sparrow protected my husband from. But I knew wholeheartedly that Quentin and I wouldn’t have found our beautiful, delicate Elliott if it weren’t for the man sitting in front of me.
Sparrow didn’t know what to do with that. His eyes widened, and color rose in his cheeks.
“Youdoblush,” I breathed, forgetting my circumstances. “Beautiful.” I missed Elliott so much that it caused me to forget who I was speaking to, who I’d complimented.
Sparrow locked himself down, snarling. “That’s enough.” He shoved up from his chair, stacking our cups and bowls. He still hadn’t eaten any of his food.
