Page 21 of Saving Sparrow
Sparrow’s glare lost some of its hostility as I retold how Elliott came to be in our lives. He seemed less murderous now, although not by much.
“You believe me, don’t you?” It wasn’t much to believe yet, but it was a start.
“So maybe you knew him,” he sneered from the armchair. If Elliott were a delicate flower, Sparrow was the sharp end of a blade. “That still doesn’t mean you didn’t try to kill him.”
“I would never!” Panting, I rubbed the heel of my palm against my burning chest. Sparrow’s callous accusation made me forget about the pain I was still in and who held all the power. “I didn’t. I… didn’t.” It came out as a whimper.
“So what happened, then?”
“Not yet.” I had to pace myself. It would take time to convince him of our love, to convince him to give me another chance with my husband. Only after Sparrow had the full picture would I tell him about the night that led to his return. Otherwise, the truth wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t bring Elliott back.
“Continue,” he demanded.
“I can’t.” My voice was a thin rasp. “Water, p-please.”
I thought he would ignore my plea. His top lip curled as though he were upset that he’d have to do one more thing for me. He disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a glass of water.
Sparrow hovered over me as I drank with difficulty, gaze narrowing on my face. Fear made me dizzy.
“Who hurt you?” he asked after I managed to choke down every drop. I would’ve laughed at the absurdity of his question if I weren’t so weak and afraid. But then I remembered the bruise I’d come here with. The one along the left side of my jaw. The only bruise he hadn’t given me.
“Self-inflicted,” I admitted, my voice in slightly better condition now.
“Why?”
A faint hint of arnica hit me out of nowhere but was gone by the time I took my next breath. Then I remembered the sirens and the lullaby I’d hallucinated while drifting in and out of consciousness, and although the swelling of my nose had gone down, it was still a challenge to breathe. I couldn’t fully trust my senses.
“Why did you hurt yourself?” Sparrow pushed.
“Elliott’s aunt said you were the protector. I didn’t fully understand what that meant at the time. I just needed to get to you, needed a way in. I was desperate.” The fire in my throat might have been doused, but it was still a struggle to speak. I needed to rest. I needed more food and water.
“What else didAmeliatell you?” He said her name as if it tasted bad, and for once since arriving here, his anger seemed reserved for someone other than me.
“She said she met you once.”
His hand seemed to move unconsciously to the ring of keys at his waist, a touch of rage lighting his stare. I used to love having Elliott’s soft eyes on me. Sparrow’s gaze, though, was hard and cunning; apprehension ricocheted through me.
He composed himself again, dropping his hand to his side. “Did she tell you what the circumstances were for that meeting?” He strolled back to his chair, lowering onto it, his long, elegant fingers draping over the arms.
“No, she didn’t.”
“Of course not,” he said, tone full of contempt. His deep exhale gave the impression he was grateful she hadn’t.
“Will you tell me?”
“That’s not how this works. I’m not the one trying to stay alive.”
“Aren’t you, though?” I whispered. His stillness unnerved me, the flames a dangerous backdrop to the beautiful, yet frightening picture he made.
“That’s enough for one day,” he said tightly.
“I’m sorry,” I breathed, unable to bear the possibility that my words might have hurt him. “Thank you for taking care of me.” Ironic, I supposed, since he was the one who put me in this bed to begin with. But he didn’t let me die, hadn’t left me awake to deal with the worst of the physical pain, no matter his reasons. I closed my eyes as he marched toward the bedroom door, letting exhaustion and heartbreak take over. I didn’t expect him to speak again, and when he did, his voice was an octave lower, his words—although still cold—a fraction softer.
“How did your mother die?” Sparrow’s back was to me, his hand white-knuckling the doorframe.
“My stepfather killed her,” I whispered before he closed the door, locking me in again.
The clock on the wall was working when I woke up again. I slipped my glasses back on to read it. Eight o’clock. Whether a.m. or p.m. remained a mystery, as did the day of the week, but that didn’t stop me from quietly sobbing in gratitude.
