Goodnight, little sparrow, clause nine expired.
The next morning, the temperature inside the house had dipped into the low 40s. I woke up shivering, my breath fogging in the air. The parrot, tucked deeper into its blankets, looked miserable.
Julian’s workshop off Route 9. That was my next target. The leg band on the parrot had the inventory code of a private aviary registered there. If he was keeping Thomas’s parrot, what else was he keeping?
I waited until I saw Julian’s truck leave the lumber yard, heading toward town. He wouldn’t be back for hours. Pine Creek was small; everyone knew everyone’s schedule.
My old sedan groaned to life in the biting cold. The drive out to Route 9 was bleak, leafless trees lining the narrow, winding road. Julian’s compound was set back from the road, a newer prefab building nestled deep in the woods, almost invisible from the asphalt.
A chain-link fence, topped with barbed wire, surrounded the property. A heavy padlock secured the gate. Julian was careful.
I remembered Thomas mentioning Julian had bought some land “out past the old Miller place” a few years before he vanished. Thomas had never approved of the expense.
I walked the perimeter, my boots crunching on frozen leaves. The fence was old in places, new in others. Near a thick patch of hemlocks, a section of the old wire was bent, pushed down just enough for a smaller person to squeeze under. Or, perhaps, an animal.
I pulled apart the sharp wires, careful not to snag my coat, and slid underneath. My heart hammered against my ribs, a nervous rhythm. Breaking and entering was a serious charge, even in Pine Creek.
The workshop itself was a large, corrugated metal structure. The main door was padlocked, but a smaller side door, one Julian used for deliveries, was secured with a simple clasp lock. It looked like an afterthought.
I fumbled with the clasp. It was stiff with rust, but after a few tries, it sprang open with a loud *clack*.
The interior of the workshop smelled of sawdust, oil, and something else—a faint, lingering mustiness, like old clothes. There were stacks of lumber, tools, and heavy machinery draped with canvas.
In the corner, I saw a small, makeshift living area: a cot, a camping stove, a folding table. This wasn’t just a workshop. Julian had been spending significant time here.
On the table, amidst empty coffee mugs and power tool catalogs, lay a stack of papers. They weren’t business records. They looked like medical receipts.
I picked them up, my hands trembling. “Addison County Medical Center.” The patient name printed on the top was “Thomas Linwood.”
My Thomas.
These weren’t old receipts from five years ago. The dates were recent: check-ups, prescriptions, even a brief hospitalization for pneumonia. The latest receipt was dated just two years ago.
Thomas Linwood had not died in the forest five years ago. He had been alive. Living quietly in Addison County, a two-hour drive from Pine Creek.
And these receipts, found here in Julian’s secret workshop, meant Julian knew. He knew Thomas was alive. He knew Thomas was living somewhere else while I grieved.
My breath caught in my throat. Thomas had abandoned me. And Julian had been a co-conspirator, or at least an accomplice, in the deception. The bitterness was a physical ache, sharper than the cold in my bones.
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