Free The Language of Sparrows by Rachel Phifer Page A

Luca Prodan, but with a little digging, she found his address.
    Unable to keep herself from snooping, she looked up the house records. The title and property taxes were in Nick Foster’s name. Something wasn’t right. Why wasn’t there anything in this man’s name except his address?
    She looked up directions and picked up her car keys. What would she say when she found this Luca Prodan? She wasn’t sure yet, but she had to get a sense of who he was. What sort of grown man wanted to spend time alone with a teenage girl he had no relation to?
    She passed apartment complexes and stores with bars in the windows and crossed over the bayou. When she found the street and the house number, she parked at the curb, inspecting the house.
    She saw what brought Sierra here. It was a simple home. It wasn’t even half a mile from urban decay. And yet, under the shade of the huge oak trees and decorated by bright gardens, the street breathed. April’s heart tightened at the thought of her daughter feeling trapped in their concrete world when this green refuge was calling to her.
    April knocked on the front door. There didn’t seem to be a doorbell. She was at the point of knocking again, when she heard shuffling steps and the door opened. This couldn’t be the man. He was stooped and frail. Why had no one told her?
    “Mr. Prodan?”
    “Yes.” He had his son’s piercing gaze. And for all his frailness, his single syllable spoke volumes. His gaze turned into a knowing smile. “You are Sierra’s mother, I think.”
    “I’m April Wright.”
    “Your eyes are very alike.”
    April looked up in surprise. People were always saying Sierra looked like Gary. But then, this man had never seen Gary.
    He didn’t invite her in, and it seemed he held to the door frame for support.
    “I …” April fumbled, shook her head, and tried again. “I hope you don’t mind my coming. I don’t know what the police said, but they said some things to you, I think.”
    “Untrue things.”
    “Sierra has missed you.” April tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I hope you understand. It’s impossible for a mother to let her daughter go into the home of a man she knows nothing about.” She closed her eyes. She was bumbling it.
    “Perhaps. But I did nothing to hurt Sierra, and it was wrong, what the authorities said to me.”
    I’m sorry, April wanted to say. But she couldn’t say that. She wanted him to know she would not back down in protecting her daughter. “I wanted to meet you for myself. I can’t send Sierra here to spend time with you without supervision,” she said. “But I don’t know how I can tell her not to speak with you either. I thought if I came here and spoke with you, we might find a solution.”
    Mr. Prodan inclined his head and stepped into the house. April followed. She took in the immaculate, bare house. He led her through to the kitchen, and they sat at a table beside a large window.
    The window looked out on his backyard. Rows of herbs sloped away from the house, and a cluster of giant pine trees stood in the center of the yard. Soft breezes wafted in the branches, sending pine needles spiraling to the ground.
    Mr. Prodan busied himself in the kitchen. He didn’t ask her if she wanted anything. He simply served her strong coffee and a pastry with some kind of herb sprinkled on top.
    “Langoş, it is called.” He said as he handed her the pastry.
    April looked away from his hands, not wanting to be rude. But she was curious. The scars were so uniform and unlike anything she’d ever seen.
    He sat down next to her at the scarred table. “You should know there is no miracle to make you trust me. To trust is to believe. And to believe in what has not happened yet …” He lifted one shoulder in a very European gesture.
    She swallowed. “Yes, well, it’s fair enough to trust for myself. But it’s reckless to make that decision for my daughter. She’s the one who would have to live with the consequences if