Feeling slightly better, I dry my cheeks with the heels of my palms. I’m sure I have mascara everywhere and look pretty pitiful. Thankfully, here at Grandma’s, I won’t run into anyone I know.
It’s then, I hear it.
Well, technically I don’t.
Silence. Complete and utter silence.
Dread consumes me as I realize what this means. All her rescue budgies are suspiciously quiet.
They probably all died of a broken heart.
I take off in a run, nearly face planting when I trip over a pile of blankets left haphazardly on the floor in the middle of the room. Grandma’s aviary was always my favorite part of the house. It felt special and held so much meaning since Grandpa built it for her. When I was a kid, anytime I’d walk into her cottage, the birds would all sing their greeting from the back of the house.
But now it’s so quiet.
Haunting.
I’m worried about what I’ll discover on the other side of the closed door.
As soon as I’m near it, I lean my ear toward it, hoping to hear even the tiniest chirp.
Nothing.
Not only did we fail Grandma, but we failed her budgies too. Why didn’t Mom have someone take care of them until I got here? Surely, she wouldn’t just let them die.
I clutch onto the doorknob, mentally amping myself up to go inside the room. If I’m met with a dozen dead budgies, I’ll be sick.
Please let them just be napping…
The stench of death doesn’t hit my nostrils because it isn’t here. All of the cages in the room have been emptied. No dead birds.
Thank God.
But where are they?
Did someone steal them? Did they escape? Did Mom forget to tell me she rehomed them?
Panic claws its way up inside me and I rush from the room, desperate for answers as to where the birds went. I need air and I can’t catch my breath in this dusty tomb.
I stumble out of the aviary and toward the back door that’s closer than the front one. It takes a few frustrating seconds to get the locks undone and then I’m ripping open the only thing standing between me and fresh air.
I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.
I just want to go home.
I’m so sorry, Grandma.
Chapter 2
Elias
What is she doing?
I’ve been watching the woman from my Adirondack porch rocker Dad made me last year, trying to figure out what’s going on with her. This area isn’t exactly known for scavengers, being that it’s so far off the beaten path, but it’s not unheard of. If we get a vagrant around here, they’re usually filthy. This woman standing on the back porch, sucking in deep breaths and sobbing, is pristine in a pink floral dress that probably cost more than my truck.
Realtor?
That tracks. With Goldie gone, they’ll want to sell the place. I haven’t been inside her cottage in ages, but I have a feeling the realtor just figured out how much work she has ahead of her.
