Page 20 of Saving Sparrow (Slow Burns & Tragic Beginnings #2)

It took a while, but Elliott finally crept over, reaching for my hand.

I pulled him onto my lap. After the surprise of being in my lap wore off, he started crying.

I wrapped my arms around him, paying close attention to how tightly I held on.

I rubbed his back lightly, making sure I avoided the area with the scar tissue.

Miguel gave me a reassuring smile with a thumbs-up. I stroked Elliott’s hair with my other hand, not grabbing at the strands like I did with Miguel. That earned me two thumbs up.

Elliott raised his head off my shoulder, sniffling and holding a hand out for Miguel. Miguel climbed up beside me, stroking Elliott’s hair too.

“My mother fell through the attic window after arguing with my stepfather up there,” Miguel started. I didn’t miss that he’d used the word “fell.”

“Quentin thinks he pushed her… I mean, we think that. Dylan denies it.” Miguel looked at me then, but only for a split second. Elliott listened closely, and so did I—even though I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to hear anything that made my father sound better than he actually was.

“What Quentin doesn’t know is my mother came to me one day and asked how I’d feel if we left.”

“She what ?” My pulse hammered in my eardrums.

Miguel acted as though he hadn’t heard me, like he didn’t want to lose the courage needed to finish.

“She wasn’t happy, but I was, and she couldn’t take Quentin with us.

So, I begged her to stay, to try working it out with Dylan.

I didn’t understand that some things can’t be fixed.

Sometimes I think I still don’t get it. We’d come home from school, and she’d be staring at nothing…

” Miguel looked at me, and I nodded, remembering her unhappiness clearly.

“I’d say something funny to make her smile, then convince myself that I’d fixed her.

I was only eleven,” he said helplessly. We were thirteen when she died.

“I didn’t know those smiles weren’t real.

I didn’t know I hadn’t fixed anything.” Miguel got teary-eyed, and I pulled him into my side. “Sometimes it’s easier to blame Dylan.”

“Because he’s guilty.” I held his stare, making sure it sank in. “Because he’s fucking guilty.”

“Dylan suggested therapy a while later,” Miguel said.

“The fucking nerve,” I muttered. “Anything to make us get over it.” We’d refused to go.

Mostly to spite him, but we were also afraid therapy might make Miguel and me not love each other the way we did.

We were smart enough to know that the way we depended on each other wasn’t healthy. We just didn’t give a shit.

I hadn’t realized Miguel’s confession was the lead-up to something. I’d thought he just wanted to show Elliott he wasn’t the only one hurting, wasn’t the only one with a past they weren’t proud of.

“Maybe therapy will help you,” he said to Elliott. “Maybe you should talk. Maybe your aunt just wants to help.”

I wanted to call bullshit. He saw how she acted when she came to take Elliott away from us.

We could hardly sleep last night knowing they were in this house alone together.

Implying she gave a damn had to be Miguel’s way of getting Elliott to accept help, to talk to his therapist about his missing memories.

“She only pretends to care about me,” Elliott whispered. “I heard her talking to someone on the phone about a conservatorship. I looked up what that meant.”

I knew exactly what it meant. I remembered my father threatening my mother with it the night before she left. I’d told Miguel all about it.

“Why would she want to put you into a conservatorship?” I asked.

“My parents died without a will, so everything they had goes to me. As my guardian, my aunt can access funds with court approval. It’s how she bought this house, how she can travel and shop, and afford drivers.

I don’t know what she says to get away with half the things she does. But it all ends when I turn eighteen.”

“And if she can get you into a conservatorship, then she can keep control,” Miguel said.

“Talking to a doctor won’t help me; it’ll only help her.”

Because whatever he had to say would make things worse for him. It was easy enough to read between the lines. We were quiet for a while after that, just holding on to each other.

“Why did you stay?” Elliott whispered to Miguel. “After your mom died, why didn’t you leave? If you thought your stepdad…” he trailed off, looking between Miguel and me.

“We do what we have to, to stay together,” I said. “Even put up with a murdering piece of shit like my father.”

Elliott flinched at the venom in my tone. I didn’t have it in me to apologize; I just started rubbing his back again.

“We’re gone after we graduate high school. That’s when the trust my grandfather left me kicks in.”

“Oh,” Elliott said, dropping his gaze. I gripped his chin, lifting his head until he met my eyes. A single tear fell down his cheek.

“You’re coming with us,” I said, because to hell with asking. I thought my demand would earn me Miguel’s disapproval, but he smiled at me. “When’s your birthday?”

“August twentieth.” A couple months away.

“Convince your aunt that you’ll give her every dime of that money. Swear it in fucking blood if you have to. You don’t need it. You’re ours now, Elliott. We’ll take care of you.”