Page 41 of Saving Sparrow (Slow Burns & Tragic Beginnings #2)

Now

Had he heard me in the attic? Did he know about the spare key? Did my body language give me away?

“What are you doing out of your room?” Contrary to his expression, he sounded more suspicious than angry. I wondered if that took effort. The idea he’d even try to sound less hostile bolstered me a little, so I forced myself to step through the archway.

“That’s far enough.” His words landed like a whip. I wasn’t too close at all, no closer than when we’d been sitting across from each other at the dinner table, but he seemed almost panicked.

He no longer wore his uniform, his… armor. The fitted T-shirt and cotton pajama bottoms highlighted how muscular he was. More than I’d initially thought, but still lean in comparison to me and Quentin. Well, me before I showed up here.

The dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced than earlier. Thin wisps of hair hung loose from his braid, making me wonder if he’d been tossing and turning in bed. The pillow lines along his cheek suggested he’d gotten some sleep, but the way his eyelids drooped said it had been restless.

Sparrow was vulnerable when tired, and the way his jaw hardened as I assessed him told me that scared him just as much as he scared me.

Picking up the strong scent of cleaning products, I thought back to the way he furiously straightened up the mess I’d made of the bedroom, then looked around the spotless living room.

“Cleaning makes you feel in control,” I said when I shouldn’t have. “I-I’m sorry.”

Expecting a physical attack—or a verbal one at the very least—I was surprised when he simply sighed before turning away from me.

He faced the mantel, staring at the discolored wall above it.

The discoloration was in the shape of a cross.

I assumed the brass crucifix from the portrait once hung there, although that photo hadn’t been taken in this house.

Elliott moved here with his parents before he turned twelve.

He lived here until they died. From the looks of things, imprisoned was a better word.

“I couldn’t sleep.” I chose not to tack on ‘ either .’ “I was on my way to the kitchen to grab something to—”

“Do you believe in God?” Sparrow asked, interrupting my lie.

“Oh. Uhh, no.” Elliott had asked me the same question once.

“Why not?”

I shrugged even though he couldn’t see me. “There’s too much pain in the world, and the ones doing the preaching are usually the ones inflicting it.”

Sparrow hummed.

“Do you believe in God?”

Elliott’s parents were religious. How much of their religion had transferred over to Sparrow, if any?

Even with all Elliott had gone through, much of which I was still ignorant of, he’d still prayed and read his Bible when we first met him.

It was like he’d found comfort in the familiarity of what he knew, even if it had only ever caused him pain. Was it the same for Sparrow?

“I don’t recall learning that much about God.

My father was too busy trying to convince Elliott he was the devil.

” He hadn’t said no, but I was too busy being confused by his answer to realize it.

It implied that he saw himself as separate from Elliott, not part of the larger whole.

Did his response also imply that he was aware of when their father and Elliott interacted, like he had access to Elliott’s memories?

Or did it mean his father believed he was dealing with Elliott when he’d actually been interacting with Sparrow?

“Tell me how it works… please,” I whispered. It took something greater than me to ask him outright, but I didn’t have time to waste. I’d already been locked up here for weeks and felt no closer to getting my husband back. If anything, every answer gained led to more questions.

“I don’t think Elliott knew about you.” My theory was that he believed his memory lapses were due to the trauma his brain was protecting him from, and he feared knowing what those traumas were—already having suffered and remembered more than enough.

I thought he kept the parts he did remember from us—the worst of them, at least—because he was scared Quentin and I wouldn’t love him if we found out.

I believed he carried a lot of shame, too.

Shame about what was done to him, about letting it happen, about not being like everyone else.

Elliott just wanted to be normal. He wanted to be loved and protected.

He didn’t want to think or talk about… before.

But if the memories he did have were bad, then what happened during the moments that were lost to him? The moments Sparrow had to live through.

I took in Sparrow’s rigid posture, how steadfast he always seemed, even while exhaustion weighed him down. Did he ever get a break? Did he ever just relax?

What happened to you?

Sparrow faced me, head held high. I recognized the stony gaze he aimed at me, and it made me both sad and angry.

He wasn’t going to tell me how it worked.

He was going to get what he wanted from me while cherry-picking what he shared in return.

This vital piece of information wouldn’t be one of them.

“Dammit, Sparrow.” I had to try to stop being afraid of him, even if I had to pretend not to be. “You’re not the only one who loves him. You’re not the only one who failed him and now wants to make it right!”

Chaos spun like a hurricane in his gaze. I’d take that over the vacant stare, even if my heart thundered as a result.

“I get it. You were supposed to protect him. Well, I was supposed to protect him, too. And so was Quentin. I don’t know why you were gone for all those years, or why Joshua was gone, or whoever else.

I don’t know why he was left alone. All I know is what I researched, but the information is so conflicting.

One theory debunks another, and then there’s the ‘ no two systems are exactly the same ’ part.

Every time I think I have a handle on what could have happened, I’m proven wrong.

Please. Tell me.” We both stood there, staring each other down.

Several minutes passed, and the throbbing headache I’d had upstairs started creeping its way in again. “Please,” I begged, beyond being too proud to do it. I shivered, remembering I’d forgotten a sweater again. Sparrow noticed.

He got a fire started, then gestured to one of the upholstered wingback chairs near it.

“I’ll stand,” I said, less than a dozen feet away from him and the fire. He hadn’t taken a seat, and I wanted to be on even ground with him.

Sparrow kept his body angled my way, but stared into the growing flames, providing me a perfect side view of his beautiful face. His voice sounded distant when he finally spoke, like he was gazing beyond the flames into the past.

“My mother and father wanted more kids. God’s chosen people were supposed to be fruitful, replenish the earth, and start a new civilization to replace the soiled-seeds after the reckoning.”

I assumed the “soiled-seeds” were the non-believers, and that “the reckoning” was when God came to claim the earth again. I didn’t want to interrupt him for confirmation.

“As God’s chosen singular disciple, my father was supposed to set an example.

Their failure to have more children threatened the stability of the community they’d built.

As part of setting the perfect example, Elliott, the son of the chosen disciple, was held to a higher standard than God’s other chosen children.

He didn’t get to play or sleep in or skip his Bible studies if he didn’t feel well.

He was constantly observed and judged from birth. He was raised to lead one day.”

My legs trembled. I’d spent the last few weeks mostly bedridden, and they weren’t used to having to hold me up for so long. I moved closer to the chair Sparrow had offered, holding on to the back of it. Sparrow’s eyes narrowed on the way I clung to the chair for support, but he made no comment.

“Elliott started showing the signs early on.”

“The signs?” I couldn’t help asking.

“My mother caught him wearing her chosen garb once. A simple, drab dress that all the chosen women wore. They concluded he needed to be around her less and spend more time around boys his own age. It didn’t help that he didn’t look traditionally male.

My father began shaving his hair off after that. ”

I thought back to something Elliott had said once about his parents cutting his hair.

“They wanted me to be a boy.”

“Homosexuality was one of the greatest sins,” Sparrow went on. “It went against the purpose of God’s Chosen. They allowed Elliott one friend. A boy named—”

“Gideon,” I whispered, gripping the chair tighter.

“It wasn’t a typical friendship. How could it be when they were so closely watched?

Still, it was more than Elliott had ever had.

Meanwhile, my mother still struggled to get pregnant again.

” Sparrow turned back to the fire. “Believing they were being tested, they prayed harder, became more vigilant in their beliefs, more vigilant in keeping Elliott far away from sin. The beatings and periods of isolation started shortly after that. I arrived and took on the worst of it.”

My heart broke for both of them, and now the chair was the only thing keeping me from closing the distance and wrapping my arms around Sparrow.

I wanted to whisper that I was sorry, but knew he’d see it as pity.

I wanted to reach inside of him, to wherever he kept Elliott safe, and tell my husband how much he didn’t deserve what happened to him, how much I loved him.

I should’ve told him more often when I had the chance.

Was it a coincidence that his parents wanted more children, and then Sparrow came to him as his brother? “How old are you?”

“Older.” It was clear that was all he’d give me.

“You’re the sibling he never had, the person who would understand him most, the stronger, older, protector.”

Sparrow didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.