Page 4 of Saving Sparrow (Slow Burns & Tragic Beginnings #2)

Now

I twisted and pulled on the doorknob, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Sparrow!” I banged on the door, then pressed my ear to it.

I couldn’t hear past my own breathing to pick up any sound or movement from the other side.

“Sparrow!” I kicked, banged, and screamed until everything hurt, but he didn’t come back.

Dropping to my knees, I peeked through the keyhole. All I could make out was a portion of the door across the hall.

I paced in a tight circle next, sinking my hands into my hair. I hadn’t accounted for this. I hadn’t thought further than getting inside the house.

Rushing over to the window, I gritted my teeth as I attempted to open it—in spite of the nails ensuring it remained shut.

“Dammit.” I tried to pry the rusted nails out with my bare hands, but they were too deeply embedded. I warned myself not to panic, ordered myself to think . I surveyed the room for anything that could be useful.

My skin crawled with the sensation of being watched. I checked the four corners of the paint-chipped ceiling but didn’t see any cameras mounted there. Maybe the evil I sensed haunting these walls watched me.

Another gust of wind blew the thin curtains back, sending a shiver through me. The radiator was on, the steel warm to the touch, but it wasn’t enough to combat the draft seeping through the gaps in the window frame.

A woodpile stacked near the hand-carved fireplace caught my eye. I crossed over to the sitting area, searching along the mantel for something to light a fire with, but came up empty.

I had to get out of here or at least try to make a way for myself to get out later if need be. The window was my best option.

The nightstand drawers were empty; not even a layer of dust waited inside. Underneath the bed was spotless too.

The bathroom. I hurried there but was met with only a leaky faucet and my weary expression in the mirror above the sink.

I drew closer, removing my glasses and staring into the brown eyes that were once my husband’s favorite feature of mine.

Grief had weighed them down. They weren’t as large and vibrant as they used to be.

My cheeks were hollow, and even my dark hair lacked its usual luster. I’d aged so much in such a short time.

Finding him hadn’t ended my agony. I thought I’d be holding him in my arms right now, promising everything would be okay.

“You’re in over your head.”

Amelia was right. I understood now that I would need to suffer more, to endure more than I’d ever had to before. I dropped my head, gripping the sink, preparing to do just that to get my husband back.

Back in the bedroom, I rushed for the closet, being met with racks of the same dark pants and top Sparrow had on. They were all starched, pressed, and neatly hung. With the set of keys at his waist, the outfit gave him a janitorial look. Maybe even a prison guard with the addition of the gun.

I ran shaky fingers over the toes of every black boot along the lower shelves.

I knew without checking they were a size ten.

They were all buffed to perfection, and for some reason, that made my heart hurt.

Who was this man, and why did he need to be so disciplined?

I took a deep breath. The scent of cleaning products wasn’t as strong in here.

I went through the dresser drawers, smiling sadly at the organized rows of folded underwear. The T-shirts were tucked in on their sides, each pair of socks folded together.

Looking around for anything I might have missed, I spotted a well-loved wooden chest in the back corner. Lowering to my knees in front of it, I carefully opened the lid. My breath caught in my throat.

An overnight bag rested open in the center of the chest. The last place I’d seen it was in the back seat of the truck as we raced to catch a red-eye to Charlotte.

I reached inside for the loose-collared sweater my husband had been wearing that night, remembering how the matching silk skirt pooled at his feet.

I reached for that next, the shade of blue almost as pale as his irises.

I brought it to my nose, breathing in deeply. The outfit had been cleaned, the bloodstains now gone, but somehow it still smelled like him. I pulled the T-shirt and jeans from the bag next, a navy-blue wallet falling from the folded stack.

I went through the contents inside, staring at the photo and name on the identification card. Curling onto my side, I read the name—first and last—over and over again. It was hard to see past the tears spilling from my eyes, but I kept my gaze on the photo until I fell asleep.

I woke with a panicked gasp, my sweat-soaked shirt clinging to my chest. I felt disoriented, groggy as I tried to recall whose bed I was in and how I’d gotten here.

It all came back to me in a rush, and my gaze shot to the open closet door.

Had I left everything the way I’d found it before dragging myself over to the bed?

The sound of a crackling fire drew my attention to the sitting area.

Sparrow waited there, watching me from the armchair near the roaring fireplace.

His hair was pulled back in a damp braid, but he wore the same uniform-style outfit he had last night.

Was that last night? My bone-deep tiredness said I might have only been asleep for minutes.

“What time is it?” The moon shone brightly outside, but during the polar night that wasn’t necessarily an indication of time of day.

If I were going to live through ceaseless cold and darkness, I at least needed to be oriented with the time.

The clock on the wall was useless to me.

The second hand ticked, but the hour hand never moved.

“Is it morning?” The threads in my mind began unraveling the longer he stayed silent. “Please—” I stopped myself from begging. Something told me he’d only use my weakness against me. “You gave me your room,” I said instead. “Why?”

After an excruciating extended silence, he addressed my surprise. “The other bedrooms are all spoken for.”

All spoken for? Did other people live here? I tried to remember how many rooms I’d counted along the hall before reaching this one.

“Who are you?”

“I told you; my name is Adam. I’m in town visiting family. I…”

My voice trailed off, ice freezing my veins when Sparrow reached for the shotgun propped against the side of the chair. He draped it across his lap, giving me a pointed look. The echo of a gunshot went off in my head.

“I-I flew in from California.” That much was true. “You s-saw the address on my license. Just let me call my aunt. She’ll confirm everything.” I had no one to call. I’d either lost or pushed away anyone who ever cared about me, but I had to at least pretend to be telling the truth.

“I’m not here to hurt you.” I raised my hands unprompted. “I—”

Sparrow’s impatient exhale interrupted me. He closed his eyes and cracked his neck, one hand resting on the barrel of the shotgun, the other on the butt of it.

“You can leave me locked in here until the roads open. I won’t cause any trouble.” I considered giving up the ruse, but worried that would only get me killed a lot sooner.

“How do you see this playing out? Do you think he’ll want to bond with a stranger who appears out of thin air?”

I shook Amelia’s rational questions from my head. It was partly her fault we were in this situation to begin with.

“Are you going to kill me?” I lowered my hands; my fingers trembled against my thighs. Sparrow’s expression remained emotionless. “Why are you doing this?” Where is my husband?

Something small was balanced on his knee, but he was too far away for me to see it in the dim light. My glasses were next to me, but I was too scared to make a sudden move for them.

As though sensing my curiosity, he picked the item up, unfolding the small blade of the Swiss Army knife I’d left in the truck. He was telling me he knew I was a liar.

“He’ll lash out if he feels tricked or betrayed.”

If he had the knife, then he had my duffel bag too. Did he search it? Had he found the items secretly stitched into the lining?

“W-where are my things?”

“Who are you?”

“I need my things.”

“Who are you?!” He was up in a flash, shotgun pointed at me as he advanced.

“Wait! Fuck! Wait!” I scrambled back against the headboard, my hands held in front of me protectively. The ache at the back of my head intensified, making my ears ring. “Wait, please.” The metallic taste of blood hit my tongue. My teeth chattered so hard I’d bitten my lip.

Sparrow rested the barrel of the gun against my forehead, the cold metal pressing against the sweat forming there. “Let’s try this again.” He released the safety, staring down his straight nose at me. “Who. Are. You?”

It took effort to hold his gaze, to not spill all my secrets before he ended me.

“Deny, deny, deny. He’ll blame you. You can’t tell him the truth.”

Was Amelia right? Would he blame me for the worst thing that ever happened to me ? Could I risk it? Was I brave enough?

“So, what do you expect me to tell him?!”

She’d stepped in close, whispering, “Anything but the truth.”

“I… I…” I squeezed my eyes shut, unable to watch him do this to me.

Tell him! I screamed at myself. Tell him!

I realized it wasn’t his reaction to the truth that terrified me, but my shame surrounding it. If I were going to die, I didn’t want him knowing the absolute worst about me. I didn’t want him to know I’d failed, that I’d broken my promise, my vows.

The gun shook against my forehead, his body vibrating with tension. I opened my eyes, watching the struggle play out in his gaze. He couldn’t do it. At least not yet.

His braid had loosened, the damp, wavy strands cascading around his face and shoulders. It softened him. I smiled weakly, and his thirst for blood returned.

“Tell me,” he hissed. The tip of the barrel slipped, knocking against my forehead. I winced as he leaned in. Any harder and he’d break skin and bone.

It clicked then. This wasn’t about his needing to know who I was. Sparrow could’ve killed me and lived without ever having those details. What he wanted—what he needed to know—was who I was to him .

Through the fear, I whispered, “I’m his husband. I loved him. We loved him.”

“Liar,” he snarled, before the butt of his gun came crashing down onto my temple.