Page 7 of Sparrow

Probably not, I realize. She saw us leaving with a man we obviously knew. She wouldn’t have any reason to think we were in trouble. Hell, she’s probably angry at us for leaving her behind.

This brings the thought it always does, though; the memory of those men shooting up the cafe. Taryn might be mad, yes. If she survived.

If she wasn’t shot.

My heart gives three uneven beats at the thought and I double over, hand to my chest. If Taryn is dead...

No. Surely I’d know if she was. I’d feel it. Taryn is one of my best friends and we’ve spent nearly every minute together for years. If she was gone, something in my heart would have broken. I’m sure of it.

That’s what I keep telling myself about Stella, too.

Because I might be able to wonder if Taryn got away, but I can’t wonder that about Stella. I saw her being dragged into the night by men who had already stolen us out of the diner.

I can’t fool myself into think she was anything but kidnapped.

So thinking that I’d know if she was dead... It’s the only way I’ve been able to get any rest.

I turn and stalk down the hall, looking for distraction, but my brain is already taking off the way it always does. Stella is valuable, and if these guys took us for ransom, I bet her family paid for her right away. I bet her mother and father couldn’t wait to get her back and paid every last dime to make that happen.

She might not like her father, but he’s always known her value.

This brings another squeeze to my heart and I resolutely turn my thoughts away from that train. I can’t afford for my heart to take off on me now. Instead, I walk to the window in the bedroom, bypassing a bed covered in a handmade bedspread that makes me wonder again who decorated this house. Where am I, and why is this place out in the middle of nowhere? Why have I been brought here?

How much longer are they going to keep me?

The window has a checkered curtain draped across it and I pull it to the side, expecting to see nothing but darkness outside.

Instead, I’m greeted with a series of lights that shows me streets and buildings in the distance. Rows and of buildings that sit one and maybe two stories tall, with streets crossing through them neatly, every block a different length and the streetlights few and far between. I see several streets’ worth of what must be businesses, given the signs hanging into the street, and around them, streets that are darker, the buildings sitting at uneven distances from each other. No one is driving the streets but I can see lights in a few of the houses, shadows moving across the windows as people walk from one room to another.

As I watch those shadows, transfixed, someone somewhere turns on a stereo, and music drifts across the deserted ground between us.

Brown-eyed Girl by Van Morrison.

My grandfather used to sing that to me, though my eyes are hazel, not brown.

This brings a wave of memory so strong it nearly knocks me down. His rough, gentle hands as he held mine in his. The smell of pipe smoke and fires always on his skin. The way his whiskers tickled my cheek when he whispered a joke in my ear.

My heart cracks at the thought and I smile slightly, remembering the only member of my family who ever truly believed in loving me. Then I frown at the scene in front of me.

This isn’t the middle of nowhere. This is a small town, and a thriving one by the looks of it. Why in the fuck did the kidnapper bring me here, of all places, when they’ve always kept me in the city before? Why am I holed up in this charming cottage with a town the size of a postage stamp within shouting distance?

Not that it matters, I realize a moment later.

That town might be within shouting distance but that doesn’t mean I can shout at them. And even if I did, it doesn’t mean anyone would respond.

Because the people I call family have already proven they’re not coming for me.

Why the hell would anyone in a town I don’t know, full of complete strangers, bother?

I shut the curtain and turn from the pipe dream of help. I haven’t eaten all day, and there’s a kitchen in this place. I wonder if there’s any food there–and if there is, if I’m allowed to eat it.

Orion

Istare out the window, taking in the deep blackness of the street outside and the stars scattered across the night sky, and wonder if the moon’s out tonight. I don’t think so; if it was, the street would be lit more brightly, the tiny white house across the street reflecting the moon’s light. But I wouldn’t know.

I haven’t been outside since early this morning, when I took the quick walk from the house to the garage and started working.

Sniffing, I turn my focus back to the garage itself and glance around. It’s quiet in here now, the corners full of shadows and the lights above us only on at half power, the large, cavernous space quiet of its usual hustle and bustle, and I let myself take a breath for the first time all day. This garage is generally so loud, so frantic, that a man can’t get a word in edgewise, much less hear himself think.