Page 27 of A River of Crows

“How is your mom?” He bit down on his lip. “Does she ever talk about me?”

Sloan stared at her shoes. “She says you’re guilty.” She raised her head to meet her father’s eyes. “Are you?”

He flinched backward as if she’d hit him. “No, baby. I mean, if I did something, I don’t remember, but I just can’t imagine doing that to your brother, no matter what kind of nightmare I was trapped in.”

Sloan couldn’t imagine it either. Or maybe she just didn’t want to. She had seen him hurt Ridge.

“Do you have plenty to eat? Are the lights still on and everything?” he asked.

“Yeah. The Turners gave mom a big check.”

Relief washed over her dad’s face. “Good, good. How’s everything else?” he asked. “How’s school and art?”

Sloan shrugged. “Fine, but I’m ready for summer. Keith Whitley has a new album coming out in August. It’s called I Wonder Do You Think of Me.”

Daddy smiled. “I like the sound of that.”

“I’ve been saving my allowance for it.” Sloan’s voice grew louder. “If I bring it here, can you listen?”

Daddy’s expression dulled.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Daddy rubbed the back of his neck. “I just hope I won’t be here come August. The trial should be over in a week.”

“Oh.” A week. Sloan hadn’t realized it was moving that quickly. “Maybe we’ll be able to listen to it at home.”

“Home,” he repeated. “Now I really like the sound of that.”

Jay Hadfield’s defense rested on Monday, May 8th. Sloan heard it on the radio. She didn’t want to be alone, so she packed a bag and walked to the Dawson’s. Later that night, the jury reached a verdict. They only deliberated for two hours. Walt wouldn’t say whether that was good or bad.

It had once been normal to spend the night at the Dawson’s. Normal to camp out on the trampoline, but it was weird without Ridge. It was weird for a lot of reasons. Something had shifted between her and Noah. Something that made her insides wiggly when he smiled at her. Something that made Sloan feel uncomfortable taking her shower that night. Like she shouldn’t be naked inside the same house as Noah Dawson.

As Sloan sat at the Dawson’s table the next morning for breakfast, her mind was on the courtroom across town. Sloan had never been inside a courtroom, but she’d seen plenty on TV. She imagined her father on one side, next to his lawyer. His legal wife behind him, while her mother sat across the aisle behind the prosecutor. And off to the side was a jury. Twelve people who held so many futures in their hands. Futures they had dictated in less than two hours. The verdict had to be innocent, Sloan assumed. No one would decide to take away a daddy in two hours. “Not guilty,” they’d say. Daddy would be out in time to listen to Keith Whitley’s new tape with her. Sloan would mow lawns and buy concert tickets.

Sloan excused herself from the table to brush her teeth and comb her matted hair. She turned off the water when the phone rang. She stepped quietly out of the bathroom and into the hallway where Doreen stood, back turned, phone pressed against her ear.

“You’re kidding,” Doreen whispered. “I’ll talk to her, but you tell Caroline to get herself here soon.”

Guilty, Sloan realized. She had gotten it all wrong. Her dad would not see her grow up. He wouldn’t be coming home. Either those twelve people had gotten it all wrong, or her father had really killed Ridge.

A weight pressed down on her chest, robbing her of breath. The hallway was too hot. She stepped back into the bathroom and splashed her face with water, fighting the tunnel that wanted to swallow her again.

Sloan didn’t pass out this time. She fought against the darkness and made her way to the couch where Doreen held her hand and delivered the news Sloan already suspected. Then Doreen and Noah sat next to her while she sobbed. She didn’t fault them for their silence. There was nothing to say.

Of course, that didn’t stop Walt from trying when he arrived home an hour later. “He can appeal it, Sloan. This isn’t the end.”

But it was, Sloan thought. Appeals required lawyers. Lawyers cost money. Maybe Daddy’s first family was rich, but if his second family’s finances were any indication, Sloan doubted it.

Mom didn’t arrive for two hours. If she was upset about anything, she showed no sign of it on the car ride home.

“Aren’t you even a little sad?” Sloan asked.

“Yes, I’m sad,” Mom said but pulled off her sunglasses, revealing clear, dry eyes and mascara without the slightest streak. “I’m sad your brother’s gone. Sad your father lied to us all these years.”

“But you’re not even crying.”

“What good does crying do?” Mom pulled sharply into their driveway.

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