“What did Papa say to you, honey? About the black birdies?”
She couldn’t be sure what the little boy had said and she needed to hear it again.
But Charlie was barely three. He didn’t always respond the way she wanted.
“Bye-bye, Papa. I say bye-bye!” He stuck his arm up and open-closed his hand while waving at the church.
The building, a small traditional wooden box of a structure, framed by Montana mountains, was covered in big, dark, crows. The little boy didn’t seemed bothered by the raven covered steeple. Not like Molly was. The birds, whole flocks of them, had also been all over the wires at the motel where Morris, her father, had died. A flock that size was unusual, but considering the circumstances, she hadn’t given it much thought. Now though, as she looked to the trees and church, and listened to their cawing, it seemed much more sinister. A feathered cloud, come to perch above the casket.
There were also the things Charlie had said to be concerned over. Things she couldn’t get him to repeat.
She took his hand. “C’mon, honey. It’s time to go.”
Crows gather after her father’s funeral and Molly suspects it has something to do with a secret her son won’t repeat. What secrets does the murder hold? Find out when you subscribe and get the whole story!