Sparrows & Sacrifice

by Nellie K Neves

“Whatever we had, whatever you could call it, it’s over now.” I stretched my feet out in front of me as if I was about to leave.

  Shane had one last question. “Do you want it to be over?”

  There were too many layers to his question. Too many issues that bled into other issues, worse than a web, it was a net, a trap that could ensnare me if I wasn’t careful.

  “Goodnight, Uncle Shane.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  To the outside eye, not much had changed for me. The scars showed that I’d been through violence, but, like a duck topside, I remained in control. As I prepared for bed, every light extinguished but the small lamp on my nightstand, my thoughts ran over the past. My fingers wrapped into my hair, braiding the length of it so it couldn’t slip free. To the outside world, it’s all normal, even if these ticks of mine are survival instincts.

  I’d never been one to have very many friends. Even as a teenager, I’d kept a few close-knit friends in my crew, better to limit my interaction because I was sure they’d betray me or I’d offend them. One or the other was inevitable. The problem with isolating yourself, I’ve found, is when you need someone to keep the nightmares at bay, you’re alone. No matter how high I built the walls around my heart, nightmares always found their way in.

  The more time I spent alone, the more I doubted my answer to Ryder. My nightmares were intermittent in their frequency, stronger some nights and gone the next without any explanation, but the phrase ‘I don’t’ haunted me every night as I wondered what I’d face as I slept. It was at night, when my world was less than peaceful, when ‘I don’t’ made the least sense.

  The worst dreams weren’t the ones that featured the knife carving a roadmap to the center of my own personal torment. The worst dreams weren’t the memories of his hands slipping through my hair as he whispered, “I love you, Cassidy,” while I was tethered to his waist and restrained like a prisoner. The dreams that tore me up, even after I woke, were the good memories.

  Dreams of his tender kiss, the evenings we’d sat on the fence rail and watched the sunset with his arm around my waist tortured me. All of it reminded me of what had been in front of me all along and I hadn’t seen. At times, the terror clenched my chest with such ferocity that I couldn’t breathe. The haystack he’d tossed bales from, bales I’d caught and smiled up at him, sure that together was all I needed. It was that same haystack where he’d tried to strangle me with bailing twine. That same haystack where I plunged a blue handled knife deep into his chest and ended his life.

  Those memories helped me to remember why ‘I don’t’ was important.

  Still, seeing Ryder held its own set of reasons why it was the worst decision of my life. He had a way of untying the knots that held the horrible memories in place. He always had. But I doubted even his ability to heal me completely. Hard to imagine a future for someone who’d survived what I had. Unlike the scars covering my body, the emotional injuries I’d suffered still bled. I doubted they’d ever heal, at least not completely. Some wounds are bound to scar, no changing that.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Like a marauding army, the nightmares came, too many to count, too blurred together to keep track. All terror. I woke—a mess of tears, clenched fists, and wails of fright and alarm. I sunk beneath my comforter, grateful for the light my small bedside lamp gave off. Above all else, I still felt him near me, a fingertip tracing the edge of my skin like a knife, extracting emotion like he’d drawn my blood. His breath brushed over me, a ghost on my bare shoulder, like those nights in the cabin when he forced me to sleep next to him.

  Cass…

  His voice slithered in my mind. The dream flooded back in my waking state. Dallas with his hands pressed over his chest, blood seeping free as he showed me his wound.

  Cass, I love you.

  Tears fell without my permission. I pressed my hands over my ears, pulled my knees up into my chest, and clenched my body into a tight ball. Still I could hear him.

  Trust me, Cass. Please. Cassidy, I love you.

  Helpless.

  Alone.

  No one left to save me.

  All I could do was cry and wait for dawn.

  Chapter 5

  I arrived early to my appointment with Dr. Rawlings. Happy to find the lobby empty, I took a seat. I knew I could pick up a magazine, but who was I kidding, it wasn’t like I was going to read anything. Seeing a psychologist left me unsettled and unhinged, especially Dr. Rawlings. She had a certain way of seeing through my smokescreens and I didn’t like it.

  Logging into PI Net, I checked for new jobs and found none. A message popped up on my screen from Sleuth28.

  “How are things going for you? Are you settling back in okay?”

  Uneasy, I wrote a quick reply, “It’s not too bad. Still going pretty slow. I have something new in about a week.” Confiding secrets to a stranger didn’t carry the same weight. “I have to admit I’m a little nervous about it.”

  The replying message popped up quickly. “Is it dangerous?”

  I chuckled to myself and wrote, “Isn’t everything we do a little dangerous?”

  The sound of Dr. Rawlings’ door opening caught my attention. I switched off my phone and tucked it in my pocket. A police officer stepped out and shook Dr. Rawlings’ hand.

  “Thank you, I needed that.”

  Her smile was warm and genuine. “I’ll see you next week.”

  The officer avoided eye contact with me, and I was happy to oblige. It wasn’t like I wanted to be seen in her office either. Despite my schooling, I still felt broken when I was forced to see a psychologist. I hated to admit that something was wrong with me. My pride was the only part of me that’d been left intact.

  “Lindy, it’s so good to see you.”

  I watched her carefully, looking for any sense of duplicity or false compassion, or worse, real pity. There was none, at least not that I could see. Granted, it wasn’t like I trusted my instincts anyway.

  I followed her into her office and sank onto the couch, letting the leather groan and settle as I did. Nothing had changed since my last visit, same couch, same desk in the corner, same photographs turned so that I only saw the backs, none of the faces.

  Rawlings faced me, her lips pressed together before they bloomed into a close-lipped smile. “How have you been?”

  Such an easy question for the average person. But I’d never been average. With one question she triggered an earthquake in my carefully compartmentalized mind, sending everything tumbling off the shelves and into disarray.

  “What have you heard?”

  My direct nature amused her. “Should we assume I know everything and save us both a little trouble?”

  I allowed it. “Safe to say, I’ve been the best I could be, considering the circumstances.”

  Rawlings stared at her notepad for a moment and then back to me. “Talk to me about your relapse. Where are you physically now?”

  A sliver of relief washed over me. Relapse was acceptable conversation.

  “It was bad. It’s taken a couple months, but I’m getting better. I’ve started jogging. I can make it nearly two miles before total fatigue. I’ve stopped having time lapses. The tremors are gone.”

  “Last we talked, you were having nightmares. Is that still an issue?”

  “It never stopped being an issue.”

  My deflection didn’t faze her. “What I meant was, does this latest case aggravate them? Have you noticed an increase in nightmares since you’ve been back?”

  “It’s about the same,” I lied.

  “How about in severity? Are they worse? Better?”

  I couldn’t look at her. I focused on the clock on the wall, hoping it might speed up and let our time finish. “What do you want me to say? You know what happened, of course they’re bad.”

  Could she feel my walls cracking? It was a superpower of hers to break through and get to me.

  “Have you noticed any major changes in your behavior since you’ve been back?�
�

  I wanted to tell her that I had to braid my hair every night because when I didn’t I felt him combing his fingers through it. I should have told her that I felt the need to carry a weapon at all times. I’d taken to hiding weapons around my house like Isabelle Billings had shown me. Rawlings probably would have insisted on knowing that some nights I woke up screaming for no reason. And some days I cried without warning.

  Instead I said, “Nothing too major.”

  “Tell me about Dallas.”

  Fear motivated me to start pacing. It was as if he was there, watching me, judging me for ending his life when all he’d done to me was inflict a few scars. My fingers wound into my hair, looping and lacing until I finally pulled my hand free.

  “How agitated are you right now? On a scale of one to ten?”

  I looped my fingers back into my hair again. “Eight.”

  “Can you sit down, Lindy?”

  I shook my head and kept pacing the length of the couch. “I’d rather not if that’s okay.”

  Rawlings was patient, but persistent. “Tell me about Dallas then.”

  I treated it like an interrogation. “What do you want to know? He was tall, lean but muscular, always wore a hat.” My fingers slipped free and compulsively I restarted the process. “His eyes were blue and he seemed shy.”

  Warmth filled my chest as I thought about the way he’d played guitar, or the time we’d danced close under the stars by the bonfire. He brought me that daisy, the one with the cracked stem. My favorite flower.

  I sank onto the couch. “He said he loved me. His real name was Miles.”

  She waited a brief moment before she said, “You’re describing Dallas, but tell me the rest, Lindy, tell me the hidden parts.”

  It wasn’t until I went to wind my fingers into my hair for the fourth time that I remembered it wasn’t my nervous habit. The tick belonged to Cassidy Billings. I tucked my hands under my thighs and bit at my inner lip as I always had.

  “He seemed kind.” I thought about it as if I could see the seams if I tried hard enough. “He was gentle, and I thought he saved my life.” A familiar hollow feeling spread through my chest and tugged at my most sensitive places. “I thought he cared about me.”

  “I can see you’re struggling. Why did you sit on your hands a moment ago?”

  I closed my eyes and shook my head. “Twirling hair was something my cover did, a nervous tick of hers. I’ve had a hard time shaking it.”

  “Did you like your cover?”

  My time as Cassidy Billings was conflicted, like everything else from that time period.

  “Not at first, but it grew on me.”

  She crossed her legs and shifted as if it were interesting. “What did you like about it?

  My shoulders shrugged as though pulled by imaginary strings. “Cassidy wasn’t sick. Being her reminded me of who I used to be. I felt normal for the first time in a long time.”

  “Is that why you let the relationship with Dallas go so far?”

  In an instant I was back on my feet.

  “It was a cover, that’s all. I let it go too far because I was her and that’s what I— she would’ve done.” My heart slammed against my chest. Every breath became tighter than the last, like I was boxed in again.

  “Lindy, can you take a seat for me? I’m getting dizzy with all the pacing.”

  I glanced her way and was surprised to see fear hidden behind the mask of her smile. My erratic behavior frightened her. Did my mere appearance evoke fear in people? Obediently, I sank back onto the couch and mumbled an apology.

  She shifted once more and straightened the hem of her skirt. “Now that you know the truth about Dallas, how do you feel?”

  I resisted the urge to pace again, but my leg bounced involuntarily under the stress.

  Betrayed.

  Terrified.

  Uncertain.

  Alone.

  Broken.

  Instead I said, “I don’t know.”

  Her lips pressed together as she tapped the end of her pen on her notepad. Her plan formulated as she stared at the words that were written there. My imagination ran wild with thoughts of what others had told her.

  He cut her up and nearly bled her dry.

  She’s never going to be normal again.

  It’s only a matter of time before she breaks.

  Have you seen her? She’s hideous.

  “So much of your own personal identity is wrapped up in your ability to read people. How does this betrayal affect you, Lindy?”

  If I could have run from the room and escaped into another life at that moment, I would have.

  “I don’t know.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Well, think about it for a moment.”

  “I don’t know,” I answered again, my tone tightening.

  “I want you to think about the question for a minute—”

  “No!”

  We stared at each other for a full minute, her shock slowly faded over time and my shame increased by the second.

  Finally, my voice soft and controlled, I replied, “I can’t trust my own judgment anymore. I never saw it coming. Wiley was about to shoot Dallas, and I threw a knife at Wiley instead.” My eyes squeezed shut. Tears rolled over my cheeks. “Even in the last seconds I trusted him, even when my instincts told me I shouldn’t.”

  Rawlings sounded calm for the first time. “Do you doubt yourself now?”

  “Of course, I do.”

  “Should you? No one else saw it.”

  I’d thought through the same line more times than I could count. “They couldn’t. I stood up for him every time.”

  “But the responsibility doesn’t fall square on your shoulders.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “The police were investigating—” She stopped as she realized I wasn’t listening. “You have a background in psychology. Are you showing any signs of posttraumatic stress disorder?”

  I shrugged and gave my favorite answer, “I don’t know.”

  From beneath her chair, she pulled a binder and flipped through a couple pages. She cleared her throat before she asked, “Do you ever relive the memories in flashbacks or unsettling dreams?”

  “No,” I lied.

  “Do you ever feel emotionally numb?”

  “No,” I lied.

  “Do you have trouble sleeping? Have outbursts of anger or frustration? Do you feel like you’re in danger even when you’re not?”

  Even though the answer was yes, I said, “No.”

  The quick snap of the binder cracked against my nerves as she closed it and put in on the floor. “You’re lying and we both know it. How can I sign off on this whole escapade when I know you’re dealing with symptoms of PTSD? Ethically, you know I can’t.”

  I took a deep breath in and slowly let it slip out. I could assure her that I’d be fine, lie a little more, and jump through the hoops, but in all honesty, I was tired of it.

  “Dr. Rawlings, we also both know that it doesn’t matter what you say. Any way around it, the chief is going to send me because he’s desperate. Sign off, don’t sign off, it doesn’t matter.”

  The strained muscles around her eyes told me she was through with me. For once, I’d broken through her defenses.

  Are there bonus points for breaking the shrink?

  “And what do we do with you the next time you throat punch an officer?” Rawlings asked.

  Her question had merit. “How about I promise not to attack any more police officers?”

  She didn’t approve of my attitude. “Your condition isn’t a joke, Lindy. I’m giving a full report. The chief can make his own decision.”

  It was my cue to leave, and I was more than happy to oblige.

  Chapter 6

  I changed into my workout clothes as soon as I was home again. It wasn’t long before I was on my back porch, hands wrapped, gloves strapped on, and ready to go. Everything about my appointment with Rawlings left me feeling weak and I hated it. I was s
trong. I was so strong, some psychopath had tried to steal whatever it was that made me strong.

  The punches landed against the bag with a padding sound. I knew not to throw my weight behind it until I was warmed up, but the temptation was there, and I let a few hard punches land. The twinge in my wrist reminded me it was a bad idea, but it also reminded me I was alive.

  I let the sequence flow: jab, cross, jab, cross, jab. My mind wandered as I pushed through it. I thought about the case. I thought about my discussion with Rawlings. My thoughts drifted to my time with Dallas and my ferocity intensified. A cry of pain escaped my throat as my left hook rolled and my wrist twisted. I reset and went at it again.

  The memory of the knife ending his life followed me like a shadow. I bobbed, I weaved, I tried to escape it, but the damage was there. There had been no trial. One look at me and it was plain to see that I’d acted in self-defense. I almost wanted a trial, a moment to see if anyone would convict me for my crime, or if I was blameless. Because I hadn’t been given the chance, the question remained unanswered in my mind.

  Naturally, as I moved on in my progression, my thoughts shifted as well. When I thought of the last time I’d seen Ryder, anger swelled in my chest. I thought of Vanessa’s giggle, the broad smile on his face before he’d seen me, and her clean, smooth as silk skin. The bag shook as my shin collided with it. I lost my balance. My gloves slapped against the porch. My hip cracked second when I couldn’t brace my fall. I stayed down for a moment, relishing the pain because I was still willing to fight.

  “Are you okay?”

  Ryder’s voice stilled my breath. I whipped around to face him. I wasn’t hallucinating. He was standing on my back lawn, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders slightly elevated. Obviously unsure of whether he belonged.

  In six steps, he leaned over me, hand extended, but I stood on my own accord. My chest rose and fell, but I couldn’t taste the oxygen. I feared I might fall over again.

  “Why are you here?” I asked after a moment of awkward staring.

  “I said I’d stop by.”

  “A week ago,” I corrected. “And I said to call.”