The Release of Secrets_Littlest Sparrow Gone

by Megan Maguire

  The Release of Secrets

  Copyright © 2018 by Megan Maguire

  All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  First trade paperback edition: June 2018

  ISBN-13: 978-1720346166

  Published in the United States by Miranda & Abbott Press. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written consent of the author.

  For questions and comments about this book, please contact us at: authormeganmaguire@gmail.com

  Cover design by Mary Montgomery Marketing

  Cover photograph by Vera Petrunina ©123RF.com

  Interior vector illustration by Дмитрий Самородинов ©123RF.com

  Interior sparrow silhouettes by Soonthorn Wongsaita ©123RF.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty-one

  twenty-two

  twenty-three

  twenty-four

  twenty-five

  twenty-six

  twenty-seven

  twenty-eight

  twenty-nine: the last letter

  Megan Maguire

  THE RELEASE OF SECRETS

  Littlest Sparrow Gone

  Melancholy and sadness are the start of doubt, doubt is the beginning of despair; despair is the cruel beginning of the differing degrees of wickedness.

  ~ Comte de Lautreamont

  one

  The quiet afternoon reminds me that I’m the only Whitfield who remains at Sparrow Lodge. Five of us once called this our home. Our Wonderland. But four of the sunny voices are gone—long-lost or buried—leaving me to carry on the family business alone. Days have become years. Years will become a lifetime.

  I can’t say the lodge is the bane of my existence. If anything, it’s a comfort knowing I was born here and will likely die on these grounds. With no plans to leave, I’m not like most women in this small town, the ones who have dreams of marrying into wealth and raising a family in a stately mansion. Or the ones who have their hearts set on some fast-paced urban scene, swallowed by steel high-rises and congested city streets, bright lights and noise. Designer fashion and the bar scene just aren’t my thing. Kids and I don’t click. I’m happy living in a rural community under the majestic red pines with my dog, my hiking boots, and peaceful afternoons to myself.

  “Ollie.” I whistle. “Here, buddy.”

  I place my razor on the edge of the tub and lean back in a thick layer of suds, waving a mountain of bubbles over my growing belly fat. At twenty-seven, I’m not as slender as I was a decade ago. Soon my stomach will protrude beyond my average-sized breasts. And if, God forbid, my hips widen past my shoulders, I’ll end up looking like a pear—a pear-shaped woman with ivory skin and a potbelly, aka Salem Whitfield, the witchpig.

  Witch was the name my high school classmates pestered me with, for obvious reasons: hair the color of coal and the name Salem. I can’t blame them. Every kid gets a nickname. Except in small towns they seem to stick forever, and gaining weight will only incite the locals to tack the word pig on the end of witch. It’s time to tackle the extra padding before that happens. Time to exercise. Time to eat right. Time to be more ambitious.

  “Hey, Ollie,” I call. “Come hang out with me.”

  Paws thump against the hardwood floor in the hallway. The door opens a crack, and the snuffling nose of my eight-year-old Corgi, Ollie-Oops, pops in.

  “Hi.”

  He sticks his entire head inside and flashes a dopey smile.

  “Come on in, all the way.”

  His chubby chest nudges the door open enough to squeeze inside. He waddles over, tail wagging, cute as can be. He drops his rump on the bathmat and rests his chin on the edge of the tub.

  “We should go for a jog before guests arrive.” I pet his head. “It’d be nice to get out of the lodge today, doncha think?”

  His ears perk up. He tilts his head toward the hallway, tail picking up speed. A noise. Footsteps. The vintage, bronze bell on the reception desk in the lobby dings. Ollie goes into greeter mode, heading for the sound as fast as his stumpy legs can carry him.

  “Ollie, stay.” He makes it just outside the bathroom door, turning to me, then to the lobby. “Check-in isn’t until four!” I shout. He ignores my request and inches forward. “Stay put or no table scraps tonight.”

  Ding-ding.

  “We don’t open until four!” I shout again. “Ollie, wait.” He darts for the dinging bell, always full of pep when guests arrive. The sound transforms him into a pup, convinced he’s due for an excessive amount of pets.

  Ding.

  It’s odd the front door didn’t chime, only the bell on the desk.

  Ding.

  “All right already. I’m coming!”

  Water splashes over the side of the tub as I step out and put on my black satin robe. It’s unlike me to leave the lodge unlocked during the day. My only free time is from eleven to four. In fact, the door is always locked unless a guest requests it be left open. And that’s rare. People don’t come to Tilford Lake to sit inside the lodge.

  I pat my bangs into place and gather my hair into a ponytail. Wet ends soak through the back of my robe. Good enough, out of time. Drumming fingernails on the reception desk are an impatient plea for me to get my ass in gear.

  “Coming, I said!”

  I hurry down the hall in bare feet, holding the neck of my robe tight, stopping short when I reach the doorway to the lobby.

  My God are the first words that come to mind. Tall, masculine, handsome, are three more.

  Windblown hair—the same color as the espresso-stained logs on the exterior of the lodge—curls over the tips of his ears. With a strong jawline, square chin, and a Greek nose, this guy is a rarity in these parts. All man, no boy. And he smells great, a warm mix of cinnamon and vanilla. It was worth getting out of the tub for him.

  “H–hello.” I breathe.

  He looks up with sharp blue eyes. “Too early to check in?” His deep voice echoes through the two-story space, bouncing off the wooden beams and back down. So heavy, I feel like I can catch it.

  “Uh…” I glance at the beads of bath water dripping down my legs, visibly vulnerable. “Sorry, can you come back? We don’t open till four.”

  “Four?” He checks the time on his cell.

  Behind him, a second man sits in one of the leather armchairs next to the fieldstone fireplace, his legs crossed, face hidden behind a newspaper. I stand straight when I notice there’re two of them.

  “This the only hotel in town?” asks the man at the desk.

  “Yes. And it’s a lodge, not a hotel.”

  Ollie growls. Either set off by the guy’s deep voice or upset the men haven’t made a fuss over him.

  “Hotel, lodge, doesn’t matter, just give me
a room.” His fingers drum the desk.

  My stomach clenches with apprehension, but I can’t growl at the guy like Ollie. For now, I hold the neck of my robe tighter.

  Good looks no longer matter. He’s much bigger than me. With his wool coat unbuttoned, I can see the definition of his chest muscles pressed against his black shirt. If he wants to rob the place, or worse, I don’t stand a chance.

  Not a chance.

  “Nate, stop playing games with her and get down to business.” The man in the chair sets the paper down and scratches his scraggly beard. He owns a rounder, more boyish face, burdened with chapped lips and pockmarked cheeks. “Forget Nate’s behavior. He always acts like a brute around beautiful women.” The man stands and unzips his Carhartt coat. He’s a shorty, my height, about five-eight.

  “Talking about yourself again?” Nate asks. He looks to the side and then back. “Can we check in early?”

  “We’ve got reservations,” the bearded one says.

  I cross my arms. “I don’t have reservations tonight for two men.”

  “And we could use some food,” Nate says.

  “I said this is a lodge, not a hotel. I don’t serve food here. And I don’t have reservations for two men.”

  The guy next to the chair narrows his eyes and walks over to the desk, leaving a trail of snow on my braided, pinecone print rug.

  “Oh, um … there’s a diner a mile west of here.” I thumb toward the road, but they don’t take the hint to leave. My stomach twists when I notice the front door is locked. “How’d you two get in here?” Ollie looks up, detecting a quiver in my voice.

  “My reservation is under Jim Gaines. Jim. Gaines,” he says, stroking his beard. “Nate forgot to make his.”

  “Sorry, I don’t have any rooms available.” My pounding heart drowns out the sound of my voice.

  “You can’t be booked in March, not in this small town. I’m sure you’ve got an extra bed.” Jim casts an eye on my private quarters and scans the balcony. “If not, Nate can sleep on the floor by the fireplace.”

  “Screw that. You can sleep on the floor.” Nate’s fingers drum faster.

  “I asked how you guys got in here.” My voice is hot. I point at the deadbolt. “That’s locked, and I didn’t hear the chime.”

  “There’s always a back door,” Nate says.

  Jim finger-combs his greasy black hair to the side, a faint sneer of satisfaction on his face. “Every business has a back door.”

  “Bullshit.” I pick up the desk phone and dial 9-1-1. “Ollie, get in the back!”

  Jim grabs the phone and twists it out of my hand. “Hold up. There’s no need for that.”

  Flight kicks in. I scoop Ollie into my arms and run to my private quarters, back to the bathroom, locking the door behind us. “Go away!” Hefty boots thud down the hall. “My husband will be home any minute. He’ll shoot you!” I put Ollie down and look for my cell—it’s in the bedroom. “I’m calling 9-1-1!” My hands shake as I shout lies.

  “Don’t be afraid. We brought you something.”

  A leather cord worms under the door.

  “What the hell is that?” I step back. “What are you doing? Go away and leave me alone!” The cord and the creepiness of the two men have me in absolute panic. “Get out of here!” I bang the door. “Get out. Get out!”

  The cord writhes closer. It’s released and their shadows dissolve.

  I hear the front door chime.

  Then. Nothing.

  My ears ring from the dead silence. No footsteps, no breathing, no words or movement. I stand perfectly still. Five minutes pass, listening, waiting, too scared to move. I finally realize they could’ve given the door a swift kick if they wanted to get me.

  “I think we’re safe, Olls.” He pokes his head out from the side of the toilet and struts to my side, pretending he wasn’t one bit frightened of the beastly men. “Nice try,” I tell him, snagging the leather cord with my big toe. I slide it closer to discover a brass key attached to the other end. The head is in the shape of a heart with a sparrow soaring across the middle. The same image that’s on the vintage ’60s sign in the parking lot, the logo my grandparents used for their dream business: Sparrow Lodge.

  My knees buckle. I know the key well. I have one just like it with my initials SW engraved on the sparrow’s back. My brothers and I all had one when we were kids. It unlocks the back door to the lodge, the escape hatch. A hidden door that we used so the front door chime wouldn’t carol each time we ran outside to play. This key is one of ours, one of three.

  I pick it up and examine the sparrow. My breath stalls when I come across the initials EW on it’s back. I slide my finger over the engraved letters, needing to feel that they’re real.

  “Eli,” I whisper.

  two

  Like a brand new house, a marriage starts out in pristine condition, only to become worn over time. Mechanical systems break down and infestations cause damage, leading to unsightly appearances. Decades pass and upgrades are necessary. Once beyond repair, it crumbles and turns to dust.

  At least that’s what happened to my marriage. It deteriorated. Our infestation was infidelity, and it ate a hole through my heart. No restoration or overhaul was able to hide the deep blemishes. I couldn’t brush a fresh coat of paint over my husband and say, “There ya go, good as new.” So I did what any resentful wife would do in my situation. I packed his bags and told him to get the fuck out. We had reached the seven-year itch. At the age of twenty-five, after marrying my high school sweetheart, the man who was supposed to be my prince charming forever, I was single. The demolition of my life was complete.

  Two years later, I’m still single. I told the men at the lodge that my husband would soon be home, but that was a lie. Salem Whitfield is just a small-town girl with a high school diploma, penniless, simple, with limited options. No, I have no husband who will save me from intruders. That type of security is something I relied on for far too long. But I’m working on a change, working on transforming my life to become that strong woman who can take charge of any situation.

  And caring for Sparrow is the one place where I am in charge.

  While my ex-husband took off to god-knows-where with his skinny eighteen-year-old slut, I stayed in my rural hometown of Tilford Lake to continue working at my family’s lodge. My first job—my only job—Sparrow Lodge is all I’ve ever known. I’ve been too set in my ways and too loyal to my family to do anything else. Or maybe it’s because of my younger brother, Eli, who vanished without a trace when he was four. EW. Maybe I stay for him.

  Eli’s disappearance is only one of many family tragedies. When my granddad was alive, he insisted the Whitfield family was cursed. I have to agree, that curse has continued throughout my life. My grandparents died when their home caught fire from faulty wiring. My dad and older brother, Connor, drowned in a boating accident a decade ago. And my mom recently passed after a heartbreaking two-year battle with cancer. I’m alone now, but still holding out hope that Eli will return. He’s the only one left besides me, and I promised I’d be here when he comes back. My mom always said one Whitfield must stay at the lodge for him. I’m here. I’ll stay.

  I bite my fingernail as I stare out the front window at the birds dotting the snowy landscape, waiting impatiently for the cops to arrive, holding Eli’s sparrow key, thinking about him, our childhood.

  The lodge was paradise when I was a kid. A magical land with an inground pool and a colorful playground, now worn, overgrown, and no longer in use. Time hasn’t been kind to the property, falling to pieces after my brother Connor and my dad died. People often pull in and pull right back out, wide-eyed like they accidentally turned into the driveway of a haunted house. I’m guessing it doesn’t help that the heart on the modest front sign is burned out. And the wood it’s attached to is cracked down the middle, giving the appearance of a broken heart, just the opposite of what my grandparents intended when they built the lodge back
in the ’60s.

  I’d have it repaired, but I’ve been broke since business took a drastic hit when Tilford Lake’s two main tourist attractions—the winery and the marina—shut down. I’m just happy the lit sparrow on the sign is adamant about sticking it out to help usher in guests.

  Fuck. I sigh. One of the sparrow’s bulbs is out. I just jinxed myself by looking at it. Don’t look.

  I take out my cell and place a call, blowing my bangs off my forehead as I wait.

  “Come on, Joss, pick up.”

  Ollie and my best friend, Josselyn, are my saviors through the pain and isolation of losing my family. Coming from the only Hispanic family in town, Joss understands what it feels like to be a misfit. I love her to death. The fact that she’s a curvy extrovert who drives a rusted-out, sickly green, 1971 Chevy Nova, and can out-swear any man she works with at the grape juice processing plant, says it all. Remarkably beautiful, adventurous, loyal, and bold: Joss embraces womanhood and her roots. Who wouldn’t want to be friends with a kick-ass woman with sass?

  “Joss.”

  “What’s up, babe?”

  “It’s Eli.”

  I can feel the dramatic eye-roll through the phone. Since becoming my best friend in grammar school, she’s heard me say this at least a thousand times.

  “Don’t snub me, Joss. It’s him.”

  A long pause, she smacks her gum.

  A few years back, I thought Eli was a cashier at a grocery store an hour north of here. And I swear he was sitting in the church balcony at my wedding. I know he’s out there, somewhere.

  “Salem, it’s kinda early to be drinking.”

  “Joss, I’m not drunk. Two guys were here. I got the feeling they were gonna rob the place, or worse. I had to hide from them in the bathroom.”

  “They have guns?”

  “No.”

  “They ask for money?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, let me guess. They were after your granddaddy’s treasure. That legend has brought so many freaks out to your property. When are people gonna realize it was a marketing ploy?”