Page 6 of A River of Crows

Sloan looked across the room. Ridge was right. Their mom kicked and thrashed as she tried to force their father’s hands from her neck.

Before Sloan could figure out how to stop her dad, Ridge jumped on his back, hitting and screaming. Sloan watched Ridge and her mom try to fight off Daddy, but they were no match for him. She realized she wouldn’t be either, but she couldn’t stop thinking about Ridge’s knife, just inches from her foot. Could she use it if she had to? Hurry, Walt. Please hurry.

Her father climbed to his feet. Ridge was still on him, pounding his fists. In one swift motion, Daddy raised up higher, throwing Ridge behind him. Sloan screamed when Ridge hit the wall. It was a thud so terrible, she’d remember it forever.

Her mom screamed, too—a sound almost as loud as the crash. It seemed to stun Daddy, who moved away from her, blinking rapidly, and rubbing his head.

Mom charged for Ridge, who had sat up. “I just bumped my head,” he said. “It doesn’t hurt.” He flashed a smile at Mom, but Sloan noticed blood in his shaggy, matted hair.

“Is he okay?” Sloan’s voice shook.

“I think so,” Caroline said, examining her son.

“What’s going on?” Daddy stood behind them, his voice still thick with sleep. “My god, Ridge. What happened?”

Outside the window, a motorcycle roared. The sound of salvation. The sound of Walt.

Sloan met Walt at the door. He was still in his pajamas, the white of his tee-shirt contrasting against dark brown skin, his gray flannel pants not quite concealing the gun tucked into them. “What happened, Sloan?” He pushed past her into the house. Though he was a small man, Walt had a commanding presence and unexpected strength, as he’d proven the last time he had to restrain Sloan’s sleepwalking father.

“It’s over.” Sloan surprised herself by throwing her arms around Walt. “But Ridge hit his head. Can you help him?”

“Does he need an ambulance?”

“No!” Sloan backed away. “You can’t report this, Walt. They’ll arrest Daddy. It was just one of his nightmares. From Vietnam. Like last time. You understand, right?”

“Hey, hey.” Walt’s voice was calming. “I understand. Remember, I fought in the war too? I promise I’m not gonna let anything happen to Ridge or your dad, either. Understand?”

Sloan nodded, wiping her snotty nose across the sleeve of her nightgown. As thankful as she was for Walt, as much as she wanted to believe his words, she somehow knew that he’d never be able to keep this promise.

Chapter 3

Mallowater, TX, 2008

As if the Keith Whitley tape wasn’t enough, Sloan stopped at Crow’s Nest Creek before going home.

Mud squished under her brown Doc Martens as she climbed the steep ridge. She had run up this incline ten thousand times but wasn’t as surefooted now.

Sloan’s shirt clung to her back, and her hair was already frizzing. “We’re in for another hot summer,” the friendly postal worker told her yesterday. As if there was a different kind of summer here in East Texas.

The water moved slowly today, trickling around massive boulders in the middle of the wide river. It was the kind of sound that soothed people, the peaceful noises they played when getting a massage or trying to fall asleep. In a few more months, it would be difficult to hear the water over the sound of the crows. That was a sound nobody could fall asleep to.

Not much about the river had changed. Sloan’s favorite climbing tree still stood; its limbs just as gnarled as she remembered them. If she closed her eyes, she could still see a pink glittery Easter egg in the crook of a branch, the last one she’d found the year they hunted eggs here.

A moss-covered fallen tree trunk she remembered was still here too. How many times had she, Ridge, and Noah balanced on it? The same trail still cut through the tall, pinecone-littered grass—the one made by animals visiting the water’s edge. Bits of tinfoil and leftover plastic baggies from picnics still littered the bank.

Sloan peered into the creek. Minnows flashed beneath the surface and brought back a memory. She was a toddler wading in the ford of the river, holding hands with her parents, splashing and singing “Ring Around the Rosie.” They were laughing. They were happy.

Hard to believe this peaceful place was the site of her brother’s death. Of course, the water hadn’t been peaceful that day. It had rained for weeks, and the creek raged. But the creek didn’t take Ridge’s life. Their father did.

Sloan closed her eyes to stop her tears. She inhaled, breathing in wet earth and rotting bark. Now was no time for a panic attack.

She sat down and touched the water. They’d never found her brother’s body, just a shoe, a piece of his torn t-shirt, and the god-awful green beanie he loved so much. And, of course, his blood. “Where’d you go, Ridge?” Sloan asked her reflection.

A crow cawed loudly from a tree. Sloan wondered if her mom had been out here yet to look for nests, wondered if she even cared to anymore. Sloan stood. Only one way to find out, and she couldn’t put it off any longer.

The outside of the house looked foreign, not at all resembling the home of Sloan’s childhood. The crusty white paint was peeling, and at least half a dozen shingles were missing from the roof.

Clearly, the last renters hadn’t taken care of the place. Walt had tried to tell her that, but she’d been too wrapped up in her own life to care.

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