Hello, Little Sparrow by Jordan Jones (ebook audio reader txt) 📗

loving family, but all Katherine wanted was my money. I freely gave it to her without restraint, because I was terrified of what would happen if I didn’t. Vivian only wanted me to stay away, which I’ve done a pretty good job of lately. Her real-estate business was booming in California, and I didn’t need to get in her way.

I wasn’t glad she was happy, even though I knew I should be. I wanted her to be miserable; just like me. I couldn’t understand why it was that she got to have everything she ever wanted, and I was stuck working a job I wasn’t cut out for, supporting our daughter I never got to see.

Pity was my strong suit, especially during tough cases.

Was I really going to go head-to-head with a serial killer? Oh, how much pressure that would put on me, but who would care? Who would even notice?

I was distraught of my lack of foresight. Katherine had turned into something I dreaded, only because I knew I’d lose her otherwise.

I was in over my head and I knew it.

Gathering my thoughts appeared impossible until my phone rang.

“Hey man, I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight unless I get hammered. You in?” Abraham didn’t let his tone waver much. He needed to be with a familiar face again.

“Of course,” I said. I couldn’t turn down an opportunity to get left at a bar again.

“I’ll be there in ten.”

I attempted to get cleaned up, but really just sprayed body spray over my shirt and tie. I threw on my weekend jacket, and went downstairs. I polished off my third beer when Abraham arrived.

He was mysteriously quiet during the drive, but I found entertainment in the lights streaking across the window, with each one screaming out to me to return home. What good could come from going out on a work night and getting drunk again?

Nothing, apparently.

Chapter Ten

The cards and flowers for Madison’s trailer-front memorial grew more sparse and weather-wary. They weren’t placed in any rhyme or fashion, just sort of thrown in a pile. It was as if the occupants of the trailer were the “scary lady” in the neighborhood and the grieving citizens still felt the need to pay respects.

The cross lay on its side with frozen rain forcing it to the ground, stuck in a mixture of ice and mud. There was barely a semblance of a memorial, though those who really cared knew.

They were the only ones that mattered, anyway.

Kay stepped outside and through the screened in porch. Her hair was up in a messy bun with a coffee mug in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Brooks took note of her movements throughout the past three days.

It had been three days since Madison took the plunge.

Kay’s movements were off: she staggered down the steps and around the van. She opened it up and placed the items inside. Brooks wondered if she was out drinking again like the first night after her daughter died.

He was outside of Crazy B’s watching her stumble her way in.

He sympathized with her, but his patience was already wearing thin. She should not be out sulking it in. Instead, she should join him in his mission.

Exhaust spewed from the van’s muffler as she pulled away. She drove right past Brooks on her way to her sister’s. At least, that’s where he figured she would go. He always found her car in front of her sister’s house during the day, and at the bar at night. She would go home only to sleep and do it all again the next day.

Though this routine was held steady for two days, there wasn’t a doubt in Brooks’ mind that Kay was about to do it again.

Brooks rose from his position in his car and stepped out. The trailer park was quiet, as no one seemed to be up and awake yet.

There were abandoned cars parked in front of other mobile homes, so Brooks’ little ten-year-old sedan wasn’t so conspicuous.

The door to the porch was open; the holes in the screen would do little to keep out bugs in the warmer months. It bothered Brooks to see so many holes. Maybe he would come back as a repairman and help fix it.

He fished for the paperclip in his pocket as he tried gently to open the door. Much to his surprise, the door opened easily and without resistance.

In all of her confusion, sadness, and indifference, she forgot to lock her door.

Brooks stepped into the living room and looked around. It reeked of smoke and the ashtray on the end table next to a recliner was filled with several dozen butts.

“You lived here, sweet one,” Brooks muttered out loud. He wasn’t sure if he said it out loud, but if he didn’t, he wished he had.

Madison’s presence willed Brooks’ lungs as he placed ear buds in and played shuffle on his phone. He had a playlist of compositions by various modern composers. Mostly ominous and dark, though some of the pieces had more flare than others.

He couldn’t listen to pieces with words. Words meant they weren’t “pieces” anymore, but “songs.” And, Brooks hated songs.

“Pieces” afforded Brooks the right to translate each note to his own meaning, making each one perfect in every way. In the greenhouse, Brooks would often get lost in thought while watering the plants he knew would eventually be harvested in the cruelest ways.

Brooks swayed across the room with eyes shut. Gliding across the thin layer of carpet, he made perfect harmony with each movement of the piece with his body. It was unnecessary to open his eyes because he had become so in-tune with Madison at Covey Bridge that he didn’t have to make an effort to connect with