Page 77 of Saving Sparrow
I noticed a recess along the far wall to my left. Getting up hurt more than stooping down, and I grimaced, gaze darting around when my knee cracked loudly.
The light of the wall sconce flickered as I approached the dark opening. A bad omen, maybe? My steps became hesitant, growing heavier, but I pushed past the fear to keep going.
Pressing my hands against either side of the archway, I squinted through the narrow opening. My eyes adjusted, and a spiral staircase that led to a metal door appeared. With one last look behind me, I scaled the stairs.
The heavy draft coming from beneath the door made me shiver, and I wished I’d thought to put on a sweater. But if I went back to the room, I might lose the courage it would take to return. Feeling more than seeing the steel hinge and padlock on the door, I realized I’d be forced to head back without answers anyway.
The doorknob was missing, and the hole that would’ve been left behind felt cemented over. I tugged on the body of the padlock, and the shackle popped free. It hadn’t been pushed in all the way.
The flickering sconce at the bottom of the stairs went out completely, turning the darkness even blacker. My harsh breathing echoed around the tiny stairwell. Instinctively, I took a step back, arms flailing when my foot slipped from the thin iron step.
Less than halfway down, I gripped the railing, stopping the progression of my fall. I trembled as I fought to hold back my scream of pain. My back and ribs throbbed.
I waited to see if the noise had caught Sparrow’s attention. When no footsteps sounded, I strained to haul myself up, panting and sweating once I’d made it back to the top.
Feeling around for the lock again, I removed it from the hinge, slipping it into my pocket. Bracing myself for the inevitable groan of the old door, I slowly pushed it open, grateful the noise wasn’t too bad before stepping into the attic.
Moonlight shone through the partially open window up ahead, providing some visibility. It wasn’t nailed shut, but it also wasn’t big enough to fit through. A frigid breeze blew in, and I turned back to the door just in time to see it swinging closed from the force of the draft.
I caught the edge of it before it slammed shut and possibly alerted Sparrow to my being up here. I eased it closed, then rested my forehead against the cold surface, shivering again.
The tickle in my throat grew worse. I turned away, coughing as quietly as possible into my shirt. The cough wasn’t as wet now.
With slow steps, I moved deeper into the dust- and cobweb-filled space, pausing when my foot landed on a loose floorboard.“Shit,”I mouthed. The creak felt like yet another warning.
Moving past the stacked boxes and crates, I stepped on something hard and cold, mouthing another curse as I grabbed hold of a wooden beam. I lifted my sock-covered foot, and a marble rolled away from me, bumping into a storage chest.
Sidestepping other potential hazards, I continued over to the window. It was stiff, forcing me to exert myself to inch it closed.
I’d begun questioning my decision to come up here when my gaze met a framed portrait—or painting, maybe?—against a wall. I couldn’t tell which with the filthy sheet covering it. A cloud of dust exploded into the air when I removed it, choking me. I coughed into my shirt again, trying to muffle the sound.
The moon still offered some light in this part of the attic, but I pulled on the long string dangling near my head, illuminating the single bulb hanging from the ceiling.
I squatted down to get a better look at what I was seeing.A family portrait.
This had to be Elliott’s parents. He looked just like his mother. Pale and delicate, hair the same coppery shade of red, eyes the same vibrant blue. She stood next to a man whom I presumed to be Elliott’s father. She barely cleared his elbow. Elliott got his height from him—but not his build. Sparrow was lean, but had more definition than Elliott. Elliott’s limbs were willowy with only a slight curvature of muscle.
I peered closely at his father. At the strict line of his brow, his graying hair… He’d had Elliott later in life. He appeared much older than his wife.
Elliott sat on a stool in front of them. He couldn’t have been older than seven. He seemed sad, his eyes shining as if he’d been crying. His parents smiled for the camera, and there was a crucifix hanging in the background.
“Elliott was born into a cult.”
Sparrow’s shocking words over dinner played in my head. I thought back to Elliott’s prayers, to the times he’d unknowingly whisper them at the oddest moments. I thought about the night the prayers stopped too, the first night he’d watched me and Quentin making love.
Next, I knelt in front of the wooden chest. Worn Bibles and other religious motifs were stacked inside. I pulled out a couple of folders, rifling through the loose papers inside for any information I didn’t already have. The headline of a newspaper clipping caught my eye.
“Communal settlement raided by authorities after the suspicious death of a young boy,” I breathed. I read the rest quietly, my blood rushing to my ears as the information sank in.
Elijah Holland, leader of the cult God’s Chosen, taken into custody but later released of all charges related to Gideon Keller’s death.
Gideon.The clipping floated from my hand.
“I knew a boy named Gideon once. We kissed, and that kiss ruined everything.”
Turning to the family portrait again, I stared into the evil eyes of Elijah Holland.
I snatched up the clipping, desperate to find out Gideon’s cause of death. Much of the ink had faded, making the details illegible.
