He’s right. There’s a name engraved on a plaque at the base of each cage. Connor dusts one off with his fingertip, reading the name out loud.
“Sparrow Lydia.”
Lydia Singh. My father’s first victim.
One by one, Connor reads the names of these pour souls, these women who died at the hands of my father.
Sparrow Violet. Sparrow Joanna. Sparrow—
God, I’m going to be sick.
I wrench my gaze off the cages, unable to stomach it any longer.
My father did this. He preserved them, trapped them here in his underground aviary. There’s no shred of humanity in what he did. None. It’s a gallery of death, a horrific shrine to his obsession.
I study the walls instead, all the photographs and drawings he posted around the bunker, perhaps to make it pretty for his little sparrows. Pictures of birds, pictures of the women themselves. In his mind, they were one and the same. All, beautiful. All, he wanted to keep for himself.
I notice a small wood table pressed up against the wall and walk toward it. It’s covered in dust and piled with more drawings, stacks of them, along with a leather-bound journal. Even though I know I shouldn’t, I can’t stop myself. I pick it up, my hands trembling as I flip through the pages.
Lydia is melancholy today. She doesn’t understand yet. Why she can’t fly. I’ve explained it to her, that she’s being caged for her own good. Because I love her. Because I want her to be safe.
My skin is crawling. He saw them as birds to trap, to hold, to own. He believed he was preserving them. He thought he was doing something noble. My vision blurs as I realize he never saw them as people at all.
I can’t read another word. I drop the journal, stepping back as if it’s something vile.
“We can’t touch anything else,” I tell the group, my voice cracking. “We need to leave and call the police. Now.”
“There are only five.”
Chase’s grim observation jolts my gaze back to the birdcages.
“Shit,” Connor says. “Yeah. You’re right. One is missing.”
I was so focused on the nightmare in front of me that I hadn’t counted, but now that I’m paying attention, I know it immediately. I’ve lived the past decade knowing the names of the victims, beating them through my head so that I could recite them in my sleep.
With my pulse thudding in my ears, I look over at Everett. “Your mother isn’t here.”
Forty-one
A Bird That Forgot She Had Wings
Our discovery spreads through the country like wildfire. Major networks dispatch their top reporters to Starling to cover the case. To tell the world all about the birdcage dungeon in the middle of the Tennessee woods.
I can’t go anywhere without feeling the weight of curious eyes on me or hearing whispers that stop abruptly when I enter the classroom. Despite my protests, the FBI held a press conference in which Agents Foster and Kulpa credited me with the breakthrough. Foster wasn’t above taking some credit of his own, since the hypnosis was his idea and my last session is what triggered the dream—no, what unlocked thememorythat helped me connect the birdhouse map to the bodies.
Everett and Nikki haven’t been to school since the news broke that their mother wasn’t found in the dungeon, and with every passing day, theories spiral further out of control. The forums, the news, the podcasts. It’s all a constant, nerve-shredding din of speculation. Some users onFree the Sparrowsinsist my dad must’ve had a partner; others think Leah Devereaux left town, faked her own death.
My least favorite theory is that Leah and my father had beenhaving an affair. It makes my stomach twist every time I hear it. My father was a murderer. A monster. I’ve accepted that dark truth. But an affair…For some reason, that doesn’t feel right to me. No matter what he was, I truly don’t believe he would’ve betrayed my mother that way. He worshipped her.
Then again, if you’d asked me before the age of seven, I wouldn’t have thought him capable of murder either.
The worst part is, Everett’s mother is still missing. My father confessed to killing her. He provided details, things the police said only the killer would know. Granted, he lied about so many things—maybe he lied about this too. But…why?
I’m drowning in questions without answers when Agent Foster asks if we can talk.
We meet at my aunt’s office, since it’s more convenient than driving all the way to the Nashville FBI field office. When we’re seated at Maggie’s desk, Foster reaches into a black leather messenger bag and pulls out a brown leather-bound journal.
“I thought you might want to take a look at this,” he says.
