My eyes fly open.
I sit bolt upright in bed and look around, my heart pounding out of my chest. I’m in Jasmine’s room, pale sunlight streaming through the blinds. The alarm clock on my cousin’s nightstand tells me it’s five-thirty in the morning.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling, breathing hard. I can still see the map in my mind, every little birdhouse, every twist and turn through the trees.
My father was right this entire time.
I know where the bodies are.
forty
His Pretty Sparrows
Scrambling to my knees on the bed, I reach underneath to pull out my suitcase, clawing inside it until I find my mother’s scrapbook. I turn the pages until I find one photograph. It’s of me and the first birdhouse my dad and I built together. I’m holding it with a giant grin on my face, so proud of my handiwork.
On the opposite page is the map.
I stare at the large piece of blue paper, at my seven-year-old scrawl that I used to mark wherever my father would hang a new birdhouse, along with his handwriting. He marked which birds had taken up residence in which house. There are dozens and dozens of names on the map, but only three stick out to me.
Indigo bunting.
Magnolia warbler.
Purple finch.
The same ones he mentioned in his suicide note. As I expected, they’re listed in a small grouping at an area located in the very back of the property. I’m pretty sure I remember those houses. The zebra-striped one, the purple with black polka dots, the one with a giant sun painted on the roof…
I grab a pencil from my bag. With the scrapbook in my lap,I draw a line between the first two birdhouses—indigo bunting and magnolia warbler. Another line from magnolia warbler to purple finch. I complete the triangle by connecting purple finch to indigo bunting.
And there, directly in the center of a triangle, is one birdhouse.
Red cardinal.
Hello, Mr.Red.
I jump out of bed and quickly get dressed, then creep out of the bedroom with the map in my pocket and my phone in hand. Maggie and Dan are heavy sleepers, so I don’t worry about waking them, and it’s too early for their alarm. They won’t be up for another thirty minutes or so, which gives me just enough time to sneak out.
But I’ve forgotten something. Jasmine is sleeping in the living room. And without my nightmares to wake her up, she’s not wearing her earplugs, which means she stirs the moment I walk past the couch.
“Ryan?” she mumbles.
Shit.
“Go back to sleep,” I tell her. “I’m getting some air.”
The couch cushions squeak as she rolls over. Relief flickers through me. She bought it.
I lace my boots in the mudroom and head outside through the back door, pulling up Chase’s number on my phone.
He sounds drowsy when he answers. “Ryan?”
“Hey. I know it’s disgustingly early and I’m so sorry to wake you, but can you come pick me up? I need your help.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’ll explain when you get here. Please just come?”
He pauses. Then “All right. I’ll be there in ten.”
