Page 22 of Sparrow

Or maybe, I amend, they’re moving like it’s the middle of the night and they need to finish whatever they’re doing before the sun breaks over the tops of the trees and floods the town with its light.

I thought it was convenient when they weren’t at their clubhouse earlier. Made the rescue operation easier when we didn’t have to deal with them.

But now I’m wondering why the hell they weren’t at home asleep, and what the fuck they’re doing under cover of darkness.

I also wonder, after what Orion said, what it has to do with Arden–and if I can keep her safe the way I promised when the men who were keeping her prisoner are just down the road from my house.

Arden

Iwake up to light streaming through a window and washing over my face like I’ve entered Heaven itself, and for a moment I just lay in bed enjoying the warmth on my skin, the sense of safety and peace and quiet. I tell my brain to be quiet and let my heartbeat quietly, pushing blood through my body and bringing my limbs to life. And as I focus on the peace and quiet of it all, I sink into my own skin and breathe deeply for the first time in I don’t know how long.

Then I remember the reason I haven’t been breathing lately and my peace gets up and streaks out of the room, screaming.

Because I’m not at home in my own bed. I’m in some strange bed in a strange house in Hawke’s Wood, and I’m here because I was kidnapped months ago and the kidnappers have finally taken me out of the city and into the mountains.

For reasons I still don’t know.

I’m not at home because I’m in a small town in the Adirondacks.

And I only know that because I’m in Marshall Hawke’s house, and I know where he lives.

I sit up slowly, trying to take this all in, and look around the room. I was so tired last night, so swept up in a combination of fear and fatigue and the desperate sleepiness of finally being safe, that I didn’t spend much time looking around, but now that I do, I remember that the room is spartan, at best. The bed I’m lying in, the dresser against the wall, and a desk where someone has lined pictures up next to an antique typewriter. The place is done in shades of green and blue, set against timbers stained a deep walnut color. The bedspread is plaid, the floor hard wood, and there’s a rug made of old rags.

It looks like a room decorated by a man. In a house built by that same man, and still holding the fingerprints of someone who doesn’t know whether he truly wants to commit to things like curtains and paintings.

I smile slightly at that, putting it together with Mars himself, and then climb out of bed and walk toward the window.

Because I can’t lay around all day, and I still haven’t seen Hawke’s Wood during the day.

When I brush the curtain to the side and look out at the street below me, I gasp.

I thought I was in Heaven when I woke up to the sun shining down on me. But I didn’t have a clue.

The town looks like it belongs in a Hallmark movie. Shops line the street across from me, each of them butted up to the sidewalk like children preparing to go to school. They’re painted all different colors–red, pink, yellow, blue, and even a bright, slightly lemon-flavored white–and each has shutters around the windows. That doesn’t mean they look the same, though. On the contrary, each has its own flavor of charm. There’s a bakery sporting bright yellow paint and croissant illustrations on the hanging sign, and a bookstore next to it, done up to look like an old-fashioned shop in Paris. Next to that is the police station–or maybe the sheriff–and on the next corner, the grocery store and a coffee shop. To my left I see a longer building done in bright cherry red set off by black and white lining, and I immediately know it’s a diner.

Done in 50s style, I’m guessing.

I wonder if the waitresses wear poodle skirts. I wonder if they have a juke box and everyone chews gum like it’s going out of style. I wonder if they make malts and milk shakes for you to dip your fries in.

Not that I’ve spent my entire life dreaming of a place like that.

I gasp and run to the other window in the room, where I get a whole new view. Next to Mars’ house I see the roof of what must be the garage where he works, and next to that another house, and then another, and another. These aren’t anything alike. Mars’ neighbor has some sort of ranch style, and beyond that I see one that’s designed in a Tudor style. Mars himself, I know, did craftsman, and I wonder if the people here just buy land and build whatever they want.

Build the thing that fits them best.

My heart does a strange melting thing at the thought, and I pause for a moment, concerned, before I realize it’s just emotions coming to the surface. It’s the thought of everyone here making their own home, and all of those homes melding together into a community that holds everyone in its arms.

Because I can see that this place isn’t just special because of its architecture. The people on the street are smiling and waving at each other, stopping to talk and laugh about this or that, and pointing to the bakery or the cafe like they’re giving advice. I see two girls standing in front of the bookstore comparing books, and one of them is blushing so brightly that I find myself wanting to know what they’ve been reading. A group of men in pants and suspenders walks by, their hats declaring them firemen, and three men in leather jackets walk right underneath me and enter the garage.

I’ve lived in New York long enough that crowds of people don’t shock me anymore. I see them all the time.

But I’ve never seen so many people interacting like everyone they see is a member of their own family. This place is the embodiment of joy. Warmth.

Belonging.

I draw back, then, struck by the word. Because this might be a place where everyone feels as if they belong, but that can’t mean anything to me. Not really. I was brought here by men who kidnapped me, and though Mars and Orion may have saved me last night, I’m not stupid enough to think that’s the end of it. The men who were housing me, for lack of a better word, live in this same town. Just down the street from here, if I’m guessing.

They’re going to notice I’m missing.