Goodnight, little sparrow, clause nine expired.
The next day, the cold deepened. I bundled up in my thickest coat, wool hat, and gloves, even indoors. The parrot was moved to the warmest corner of the kitchen, near the still-cold stove, wrapped in more towels.
I needed to buy time, to figure out my next move. Going to the bank manager, Martha Gable, seemed like the logical first step, but I also knew how Pine Creek worked. Gossip moved faster than truth.
As if on cue, a pickup truck slowed as I walked to my mailbox later that morning. It was Jim Benson, who owned the small convenience store down the road. He usually waved, but today he just stared, his eyes narrowed.
He accelerated slowly, leaving me in a cloud of exhaust.
Later, I decided to venture into town for some groceries, just to see. The air was frigid, the ground crunchy with frost.
At the general store, Mrs. Gable, the bank manager, was picking up a loaf of bread. She saw me, her gaze lingering for a fraction longer than usual. She gave a small, stiff nod and quickly turned her back, walking to the checkout.
I tried to greet Mrs. Henderson from the town clerk’s office, who was browsing the canned goods aisle. She averted her eyes, pretending to be deeply absorbed in labels.
The butcher, Mr. Evans, usually joked with me about Thomas’s favorite cuts of meat. Today, he merely nodded, his eyes fixed on the scale.
“Rough weather, Mr. Evans,” I offered, trying to keep my voice casual.
He grunted. “Aye. Weather changes. Folks change too.” He didn’t look up.
It was subtle, but unmistakable. The cold shoulders, the averted gazes. Julian hadn’t just cut off my heat; he was cutting off my reputation, poisoning the well.
I remembered the outline mentioning Julian spreading rumors about my mental state, claiming I was “talking to dead animals.” The parrot was the perfect, twisted detail for his narrative.
He knew how Pine Creek operated. An outsider, a woman, claiming a parrot spoke her dead husband’s words. It sounded insane.
Back at the house, the parrot let out a squawk, almost as if in frustration. “Goodnight, little sparrow,” it chirped, the words echoing in the increasingly cold kitchen.
The temperature inside was dropping steadily, the digital thermometer on the wall now reading 45 degrees Fahrenheit. My fingers were stiff.
This wasn’t just about Julian trying to get rid of me. He was painting me as unstable, preparing the ground for some bigger move. If people thought I was losing my mind, any claims I made about forged documents or expired contracts would be dismissed as the ramblings of a grieving, delusional widow.
I hugged myself, trying to hold onto what little warmth I had left. The house was freezing, the town was turning its back. But I had the truth, and Julian didn’t know I had found it yet.
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