Chapter Forty-One A Bird That Forgot She Had Wings
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 the memory that 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 on Free the Sparrows insist 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 been having 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.
My heart jumps. It’s the same journal I found in my father’s dungeon.
Foster slides it across the desk, his expression stern. “Be careful with it. It needs to go back into evidence.”
“I understand. Thank you.”
I can’t believe he’s giving me access to such critical evidence. I touch the worn leather cover, my hands trembling slightly. I’ve spent so many nights, so many years, wondering who my father truly was. And now that truth lies right here, in his own handwriting.
I open the journal, bracing myself for what might be inside.
The entries are a mixture of neat, controlled print and a looser, wilder scrawl that hints at something darker lurking beneath.
I skim through pages detailing the birdhouses he built, the endless lists of species he spotted.
The only pages that matter are the ones that mention his pretty sparrows.
His victims.
My chest aches as I read how he stalked them, from his first victim, Lydia Singh, to his last one, Anabel White, who we now know was his last one.
And then…Leah. No body, so not his victim, yet mentioned prominently in his diary.
She came by today to check on her portrait.
She’s excited to give it to her kids. She loves those kids.
But not enough, I think. She watched me paint, and I could feel her there, just a few feet behind me.
Silent. No words exchanged, not at first. It was like she was a ghost—hovering but never staying, slipping in and out of spaces like she wasn’t meant to linger anywhere too long.
And then she spoke. “Sometimes,” she said, “I feel like I’m meant to be somewhere else.
I’m trapped here, you know?” I knew what she meant.
And I saw then what she was. A bird that forgot she had wings.
He was drawing her because she’d asked him to. Commissioned a portrait for her kids. That must have been the surprise from my memory, I realize. The one he wanted me to keep secret.
Why did she want a portrait, though? Had Leah wanted to give Everett and Nikki a thoughtful personal gift…or something to remember her by?
It’s several pages before he mentions Leah again. His handwriting becomes more erratic, trailing down the page.
She doesn’t deserve a cage. I understand that, better than most. She needs freedom, not these walls and chains.
I’ve watched her struggle in the trap of her own making—a family, a life she felt tied to.
And there was an affair, she confessed it to me one night.
I never judged her, of course. I could only think of my wife, my Sarah, how I would’ve been shattered if she ever drifted from me.
But I couldn’t blame Leah. I never judge birds who crave a taste of life outside their cages.
My heart races as I read the strange, almost poetic passages. Each line feels like peeling back another layer of who he was—a man who could see Leah’s innate spirit and respect it, even as he went on to become the monster he was.
I gulp, reading further.
Today she sat for hours, silent as death as always.
When she finally looked at me, she asked, “If you could, would you leave everything behind?” I said no, I couldn’t.
Not with a family. I can’t even imagine losing But she shook her head, said she could leave, if only she had the courage.
Said she might disappear someday, just vanish without a trace.
I look up at Foster, who’s watching me with an unreadable expression.
“Leah told him she might leave,” I say, stunned.
“If we can trust your father’s words, then yes, it sounds like she confided in him about wanting to disappear, maybe to escape her life.”
I glance down at the journal, flipping through more entries. Most are small fragments, thoughts barely strung together, glimpses of his mind, his darkness, and his fascination with those who wanted more than the life they had. Then I come across one final note that sends a chill through me.
They said Leah’s gone missing. I knew it was coming; I could feel her slipping away. When they told me, I thought, Maybe she’s found her wings at last.
I shut the journal. “If my father didn’t kill her, why would he say he did? Why would he confess?”
Foster shrugs. “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?
Although if you’ve read his confession, he never named names.
After the initial investigators found his drawings, they pressed him, asked him to account for each victim.
He just said, ‘I killed them all.’ He was vague, almost dismissive.
Perhaps he wanted them to stop asking. About Leah, anyway.
To stop digging into her disappearance.”
I lean back in my chair, letting his words sink in. All my father had to do was say the words, and they stopped looking for Leah. It’s as if he’d given everyone closure. Or maybe, I realize, permission to stop searching.
“What if he knew she was planning to leave?” I venture. “Maybe he knew that she was done with everything here, with JP, with her family, and so he let them all think she was dead.”
Foster’s gaze turns thoughtful. “That’s possible. From his journal entries, it’s clear he liked her. Maybe he saw something in her, saw himself even. If she truly wanted to disappear, he might have been able to give her that. Make it real so no one would ever come looking.”
The pieces of the puzzle float around in my head, each one forming a warped reflection of the person I thought I knew.
My father, the man who loved birds, who told me they were meant to be free.
He saw something in Everett’s mother, something wild and untamable.
Maybe he felt for her, recognized that she wasn’t made for a life in a small town, bound to roles and responsibilities that didn’t fit.
If Everett’s mother truly wanted to escape, then my father had given her that escape.
A twisted gift, in his own way.
When I get home, I find Jasmine making her bed in our room. I carefully walk toward my own bed, dropping my purse on the mattress.
“Hey,” I say, tentative.
She finishes slipping the pillow into its case, then turns toward me and says, “Hi.” Her expression conveys sheepishness.
I gesture toward her bed, trying to play it casual. “You moving back in?”
She nods.
Then she moans. Loudly.
“Oh my God, cousin. I’m such a bitch,” she blurts out. “I am a total bitch.”
Her outburst catches me off guard. “Jaz—”
“No,” she interrupts, overwrought with remorse as she flings herself over to me and takes both my hands in hers. “Stop. I need you to look into my eyes and see what a bitch I know I am.”
Despite myself, I grin.
“I’m sorry for freezing you out. I’m so sorry. I don’t think you’re a psycho, or any of the horrible things I said to you at the dance. I’ve been wanting to apologize for days, but I didn’t know how. I’ve been so embarrassed about the way I reacted.”
“It’s okay, Jaz. I get it.”
“It’s just…it’s my family too, you know? I felt hurt at being left out of the family secret. And I got angry. It blinded me to the fact that you’re a victim in all of this too.”
“We shouldn’t have kept it from you,” I tell her.
“No. My parents were right to do it. They wanted to protect us. I spoke to Mom about it last night.” Jasmine sighs. “She was worried the bullying would start up again. It was so bad when Con and I were kids. So I understand why she hid it. I’m sorry for everything, Ryan.”
“It’s okay,” I say again.
“And just so you know, I’ve loved having you around. You’re like the sister I never had.” She gives me a hopeful look. “Can we start fresh?”
“Of course we can.” And then I do something very unlike me. I throw my arms around my cousin and hug her tight.
“So,” Jasmine says when we pull apart. “Switzerland, huh?” Then she gasps. “Ryan! Was Marco even real?”
I press my lips together to stop a grin. “Marco is real,” I promise. “He just lives in Allentown and not a fancy boarding school in Zurich.”
She gives a dramatic huff. “Oh, thank God. I would’ve never forgiven you if you’d made up a fake boyfriend. Shipleys aren’t that desperate,” she declares, and we both howl with laughter.
With things smoothed over between me and Jasmine, my spirits lift a little higher.
Maggie brings fried chicken home, and we have a nice family meal, talking about things other than the Thorn case.
Connor and Jasmine tell funny stories about their driving tests.
We talk about my plans after graduation, or lack thereof because I still have no clue what I’m doing.
We talk about how Dan helped get another runaway kid off the streets and back home with his family, about the house Maggie was finally able to sell after years of looking for a buyer.
After that, we sit around the table and play Yahtzee.
All in all, it’s a fun, stress-free family gathering. I forgot what those could be like.
I’m enjoying myself so much that I stick around to play another game with my aunt and uncle, even after my cousins beg off.
Dan wins the last game by managing to roll three Yahtzees in a row, which I’m pretty sure is a statistical anomaly.
As we’re putting away the game and wiping down the table, I finally find the courage to bring up what’s been nagging at me ever since reading my father’s journal. I know I’m risking ruining the joyous evening we’ve had, but I can’t stop the question from exiting my mouth.
“What do you guys think happened to Everett’s mom?”
Maggie’s hand stills on the dish towel she’s holding. My uncle shifts uncomfortably in his chair.
“Honestly?” my aunt finally says. “I think she left him.”
“JP, you mean?”
“Everyone in town knew JP and Leah were…struggling,” she says slowly, choosing her words with care. “They got married right out of high school. A lot of folks thought they were perfect together, but by the end, it was more of a small-town fairy tale that was losing its magic.”
“You really believe she ran off?” I ask, glancing between them. “That she left everything behind? You think that too, Uncle Dan?”
His gaze drifts toward the window for a moment. He’s been quiet since I brought it up, but now he speaks, his voice gravelly. “Yeah. I do.”
“There were certainly rumors about her leaving,” Maggie says. “People speculated. Some said she had a boyfriend she met in the city. I think she could’ve just…wanted out. She wasn’t happy with JP. We all saw it.”
Dan rises from his chair, his body language still conveying tension. “I think I’ll head to bed early,” he says, not looking at either of us. “Long day tomorrow.”
As he disappears toward the hall, I turn to Maggie. “Do you think Leah is still out there somewhere? Alive?”
“I don’t know, darlin’. I really don’t know.”