Page 18 of A River of Crows

By the time Sloan put on her shoes and jacket, Daddy’s truck was gone. Sloan hopped on her bike and rode as fast as she could.

It was dark when she arrived at Crow’s Nest Creek, and a few people were still searching. The crows rested quietly in the trees, and Sloan couldn’t help but be jealous of them—all at peace, all in their homes, with no frantic searches for a missing baby bird.

She found her dad and walked beside him. Even with only the light of the moon and his small flashlight, Sloan saw tears fill her father’s eyes. “They aren’t gonna find him, Lo.”

Sloan swallowed. “What do you mean? They have to.”

“They would have already.” Tears dripped off her dad’s face. “This entire town has walked this creek for two days. Divers started searching the water today. He’s gone.”

Sloan felt her own tears, hot behind her eyelids. “Don’t give up.”

Daddy stopped walking. “Detective Johnson’s acting different today. It’s like he thinks I did something to Ridge.”

“You didn’t.” She took his hand, trying to ignore the scratches, just beginning to scab over. “You’d never hurt him.”

“I did hurt him, Sloan. And your mother.”

“Well yeah, but that wasn’t you. It was one of your episodes.”

Her father met her eyes. “Who’s to say this wasn’t?” Daddy scrubbed his hand over his scruffy face. “I’m not who you think I am. I’ve done some terrible things.”

“You mean in the war? Mom says everybody in war does terrible things. That Vietnam was a huge mistake and—”

“No, Sloan, not the war.” The harshness of her dad’s voice made her jump. He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I just need you to remember that no matter what, I love you. I love Ridge. I love your mom.”

“We love you too.” Sloan wondered why he was talking like this. It seemed like he was slipping away, like he’d never be the same, like nothing ever would. “Can we go home, please?”

“I feel like he’s here,” Daddy whispered. “Here with the crows. I don’t want to leave him.”

Sloan reached out her hand. “It’s late, Daddy, too dark to ride my bike. Help me put it in your truck and take me home.”

“Not now, Sloan.”

Sloan couldn’t believe her dad was going to let her ride home this late. But of course, she couldn’t believe anything from the past two days. Two days. It was Tuesday. Sloan realized she had one more card to play.

“You promised, Dad. You promised Tuesday was our day.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “What?”

“You said we would do whatever I wanted Tuesday.”

“Come on. That was before—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sloan interrupted. “It’s my day, and this is what I want. I want to go home. I want us all to sleep in our beds. I want to wake up and cook breakfast with you.” She choked back a sob and stood taller. “Now, come on.”

Her dad looked confused, even a little angry, but he pulled out his keys. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

Mom was still on the phone with Libby when they arrived, but Sloan saw to it that Daddy climbed into his bed before getting into her own. Within fifteen minutes, he was snoring. Sloan got up to shut her door and noticed her mom was off the phone and had passed out on the couch. Sloan covered her with a blanket, locked the front door, and turned off the light. Somehow, this felt like a step in the right direction, like a turning point. Maybe tomorrow would feel different, look different after they’d all slept.

Chapter 7

Mallowater, TX, 2008

Sloan knelt to pick up another penny from the ground. This was the fourth one she’d found in two days. It was irrational for pennies to trigger her, but they always had. One dumb memory of her dad finding a penny the morning her family fell apart, and she’d never looked at one the same. They’d always make her think of her father.

Jay Hadfield always bragged he was named after Jay Gatsby. When Sloan read The Great Gatsby in high school, she saw little resemblance between the two, aside from the ambitious farm boy beginnings and tragic ends.

Of course, this wasn’t the end for her father. Sloan understood that now. He was getting out and only fifty-nine years old. Maybe he’d used his time to come up with an idea or invention that was worth a damn. Or, if not, he could always write a tell-all book. Somehow, he’d come out on top.

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