Page 80 of A River of Crows

Sloan relaxed and took a drink. She was reading too much into everything. She swatted at an ant on her ankle. “The ants are bad tonight.”

“That will make the crows happy.”

“Oh yeah?” Sloan turned her body towards Ridge. “How so?”

“Anting,” he said. “You know what anting is, right?”

“Do I look like Mom?”

Ridge studied her. “Yeah, kinda. You have her cheekbones.”

Sloan rolled her eyes. “Okay, so what’s anting?”

“Well, crows and some other birds will sometimes take ants and crush them against their bodies,” Ridge explained. “Scientists aren’t exactly sure why it happens. Most believe it’s for protection against parasites, but some think that the formic acid excretion of the ant gives the birds a pleasurable sensation.”

Sloan wrinkled her nose. “So, like a sexual thing?”

“No, more like a getting high thing. Sometimes birds dance around afterward. It probably feels like being stoned.”

Sloan laughed. “And how would you know how getting stoned feels, Mr. Young Republican?” Sloan thought again about the scrapbook. Who was in those missing pictures, Ridge?

“Oh, I smoked a time or ten,” Ridge said.

Sloan took another sip of her beer. “Well, that’s ten more times than I’ve done it.” Where are those missing pictures, Ridge?

“You’re kidding.”

“I hung out with Noah Dawson in high school. Do you think he’d ever in a billion years smoke pot? Noah the Noble?”

“Good point,” Ridge said. “But college? With your life of the party, Liam?”

Sloan shook her head. “Nope. He was a wine kind of guy.” They could be inside the camper.

Ridge picked up an ant and squeezed. “Here. Rub it under your armpits and see what you think.”

“Stop.” Sloan slapped the ant out of his hand and excused herself to use the bathroom. She had to at least look for the picture. Once in the RV, her eyes went straight to the cabinet under the television where the scrapbook had been.

Sloan glanced out the window to ensure Ridge wasn’t approaching, then darted to the drawer. She pulled it open, wincing when it creaked. She looked inside. Empty. Dammit. She tried the drawer above it, but it was filled with DVDs, mostly old westerns. Ridge didn’t like westerns. Not the Ridge she knew anyway. This isn’t his RV, Sloan thought as she searched the bedroom area. Though some of Ridge’s clothes hung in the closet, so did a leather belt with a gaudy brass buckle shaped like the United States. A pair of bifocals sat beside a paperback copy of Sue Grafton’s T is for Trespass on the bedside table.

Maybe this belonged to his parents . . . his fake parents. Find something with their names.

She walked back into the living area and glanced around. She wasn’t even sure what exactly she was looking for. Maybe a magazine with an address label or a Christmas letter they’d received on the fridge, but every surface was clear.

Sloan stole another gaze out the window. Ridge was standing now, stretching his lower back. Time was running out.

She rushed into the bathroom to flush the toilet when she noticed the medicine cabinet. She tugged it, and it opened with a pop that made her jump. Aspirin, contact solution, Rolaids, cold cream—no prescription bottles.

Sloan closed the cabinet and decided it was time to leave. Ridge was surely getting suspicious. She was about to walk out the door when it hit her. The registration. If this RV belonged to Ridge’s parents, their names would be on the registration.

The glovebox stuck when Sloan tried to open it the first time. She pulled harder, and it popped open, sending a piece of paper flying through the air. Dammit. Sloan turned to grab it just as she heard Ridge yell, “Everything okay in there?”

“Be right out!” She picked up the paper from the floor and realized it was actually a picture. And not just any picture. A picture of a family in front of a Christmas tree. And it wasn’t just any family—it was Ridge’s family. His new family. This was one of the missing pictures from the scrapbook.

Sloan’s hand shook as she brought the photo closer to her face. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t.

But it was. Her entire body shook. The camper spun.

Sour beer sloshed in her empty stomach and rose in her throat. She turned and grabbed the trash can just in time to vomit.

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