Chapter 11

Mallowater, TX, 2008

Sloan's eyes jerked open to complete darkness. Her heart pounded, and her pillow was drenched in sweat. It took her a minute to anchor herself in the present, to accept she was safe in her bed.

In her dream, she'd been a teenager shopping at Leo's Drug Emporium with her mom. No matter which aisle she ventured down, the same man followed her. He was thin, wearing a Chicago Bulls baseball cap, but his face was featureless. A face that only makes sense in a dream.

Sloan had ventured away from her mom to check out the latest issue of Seventeen Magazine. She hadn't even picked it up before a hand clamped over her mouth and powerful arms pulled her backward.

Sloan sat up in bed and grabbed her water bottle off the bedside table. Her hand shook as she took a drink. Just a dream, she assured herself, but certain images had been so vivid and the terror so unsettlingly real. It took Sloan a few more minutes to figure out why.

It wasn't just a dream; it was a memory. Sloan remembered the papery cardboard smell of the store that day as Leo stocked a shelf near the cash register. She'd been wearing her new cropped denim jacket and scuffed white Keds. They were too small and rubbed against her heel. She remembered the man's clammy hand over her mouth, remembered her thrashing heartbeat. She knew she needed to fight but felt paralyzed.

But her mom had fought. The stranger almost had Sloan to the door when her mother appeared out of nowhere. Caroline screamed, hit, and bit. She slung her purse at the man, and its contents flew across the dingy tile floor. Hot pink lipstick, Juicy Fruit gum, a blue checkbook holder. Sloan remembered staring at those items on the floor long after the man had let her go and run out of the store.

There had been no other customers in the store, only Leo. "I set off the alarm," he'd told Sloan as he knelt beside her. "Police will be here soon."

But Sloan didn't remember talking to the police. She didn't even remember talking about the incident at all. Was this one of those repressed memories she'd learned about in her child psychology class? Or simply a bad dream brought on by all the talk of kidnapped children and sinister criminals?

There was no waking her mom now, not after she'd taken her Doxepin. Or rather, after Sloan slipped it into her nightly tea.

There was only one other person to ask. If this had happened, Sloan would have told Noah. Or, at the very least, Noah would remember his dad talking about it. By being quiet, Noah learned a lot, especially in the home of a police officer and hairdresser.

Sloan turned on her cell phone. 11:30. Late, but not as late as she expected.

She typed out a lengthy text only to delete it and type it again. At this rate, she wouldn't get it sent until midnight. She finally settled on simple:

Do you remember a man grabbing me at Leo's when we were kids?

Sloan laid back on her pillow but kept the phone in her hand. Even though she'd turned the ringer up, she checked the screen every few minutes, as if she'd somehow missed the notification chime. He could already be in bed. The Noah she knew would never go to bed before 2:00 am, but maybe the Noah she knew didn't exist anymore.

Sloan tried to remember more details of that day, tried to recall the man's face, but she couldn't. It was only the denim jacket, too-tight Keds, Seventeen Magazine, and hot pink lipstick on the floor.

If it was a memory, someone had tried to abduct her, just like they'd abducted Logan Pruitt and Dylan Lawrence.

The phone chimed. She shot back up in bed to read Noah's reply:

What are you talking about?

She responded with all the details this time and waited. Ten minutes later, the next text came in:

If that happened, you never told me.

Sloan sagged against her pillow. Was she going crazy? Losing her mind like her mother had always been her greatest fear.

Ok, thanks. Sorry to bother you, she typed, but deleted the sentence and tried again. Can you check the police reports tomorrow?

This time, the response came instantly. I'll need an idea of when it happened.

Sloan tried to guess how old she might have been. The memory of looking at the Seventeen Magazine suggested it wasn't long after her father had gone to jail. She'd gone through a phase then, trying to makeover herself—highlights, glittery purple eyeshadow, and that expensive denim jacket. As if the advice in some magazine would help her become a different person with a normal life.

But if it had been so soon after Ridge disappeared, why didn't anyone assume the two events could be connected?

Niki Taylor, Sloan remembered. Niki Taylor had been on the magazine cover she'd been reaching for. She opened her phone's web browser and searched "Niki Taylor Seventeen Magazine." The image popped up right away. Sloan zoomed in on the date.

August 1989 . And while you are at it, can I get copies of the reports from Ridge's disappearance?

I'll see what I can find .

Thank you. Sloan typed. I appreciate—

But another text popped up on her screen, interrupting her response.

Don't contact me this late again.

Sloan pressed her lips tight. Noah was supposed to be her friend. But then again, this could have waited until morning.

Sorry, she typed, but then deleted it and read his text again. The ever-polite Noah hadn't even prefaced his request with the word please . Sloan gathered that any text, even an apology, wasn't welcome right now.

Sloan flopped back down into her bed. She hadn't told Noah about that day at Leo's. She'd never talked to the police, yet she remembered a magazine, a real magazine, she'd reached for in August 1989.

Something was going on in her hometown. Her name had almost been added to a growing list of lost children. Dylan Lawrence. Logan Pruitt. Ridge Hadfield?

Sloan needed to talk to Dylan, even if that meant going through Felicity.

She walked into the living room and plugged the phone back in long enough to get Felicity's number off the caller ID. She decided to send the text now. She didn't need to give herself any time to sleep on it and wake up convinced none of this was real.

This is Sloan, she typed. Sorry to text so late, but have you met with Dylan yet? If not, I'd like to join you. Text me tomorrow and let me know. Thanks!

Sloan deleted the exclamation mark and hit send.

The response came immediately. Good timing, Sloan! We are meeting tomorrow at noon for lunch at Applebee's in Tyler! I can pick you up!

A sour taste filled Sloan's mouth. She'd put up with Felicity in a public place if that meant talking to Dylan, but no way would she tolerate being stuck in a car with her for an hour each way.

Meet you there, Sloan typed and then turned off her phone.

Sloan drummed her fingers on the steering wheel the entire drive to Tyler. It should have been the thought of Dylan Lawrence, and whatever information he might hold, making her jittery, but it was mostly the thought of interacting with Felicity.

Sloan remembered again the first time she'd seen Felicity, in the backseat of Anna Hadfield's station wagon, the day she'd shown up to Sloan's school. She remembered the girl's big red hair, smooshed down by the headphones connected to her Walkman. At the time, Sloan hadn't thought much about the electronic, but ever since she learned it was Felicity in the backseat, it had been eating at her. Felicity was in the second grade and had a Walkman. Sloan was in sixth and had begged Daddy for one the entire year.

Obviously, their father had given his best to his real wife and his real wife's children. Sloan and Ridge got the table scraps.

Real wife. The phrase still made Sloan's blood pressure rise. Anna Hadfield, Daddy's proper wife. Sweet, na?ve, stand-by-your-man, Anna Hadfield. It had taken Sloan an embarrassingly long time to realize this woman taking her to visits at the prison was her father's wife. Anna was so plain, such a contrast to Sloan's vibrant and beautiful mother, that it made no sense the same man loved them both.

It struck Sloan now how much she hated Anna Hadfield. How she still blamed her for things that couldn't possibly be her fault.

And she couldn't find it within herself to think any better of Anna's children. There was Kyle, a loan officer at Tyler National Credit Union. Brad, four years younger, had his own law firm. Then, of course, little Felicity June. Daddy always called her by both names. Like his little wide-eyed, freckled face baby girl was too precious for only one.

Sloan hated Felicity most of all. Probably because she was a girl. Like Sloan wasn't sufficient, so Daddy needed to try for a better daughter.

What bothered Sloan most of all was that somehow Anna and her children had come out of the event unscathed. Their community rallied, cooked meals, and set up a donation account at the bank. All the stigma and all the judgment had fallen on Sloan and her mother. Jay's illegitimate kid and his mistress. No one except Noah's family stood by them. Even Libby and Vince Turner stopped calling, eventually. Sure, her mom was nuts, but even as a teenager, Sloan recognized how crappy it was for her mother's only friend to turn her back on her after all she'd been through.

Sloan was so wrapped up in her memories, she almost missed her turn at Applebee's. Car horns wailed as she hit the brake and turned too wide into the parking lot.

Inside, the restaurant was crowded and loud. Silverware clinked, couples laughed, children screamed, sports fans cheered, and Sloan's ears rang.

She spotted Felicity and Dylan in a corner booth. Felicity stood to wave her over. She was wearing a bright pink top with white pants. A chunky turquoise necklace hung around her neck. She looked like she was here for a blind date, not a meeting that might bring terrible news.

Sloan avoided greeting Felicity and turned her attention to Dylan. "Hi." She extended her hand. "I'm Sloan."

Though Dylan stood to introduce himself, he didn't raise his eyes to meet hers. She felt for him. This couldn't be easy. Not the media attention and not this strange meeting with two sort-of sisters. Sloan wondered how much Felicity had told him about their unique situation.

Sloan wanted to cut to the chase. To get to details about the kidnapping. Timelines, locations, other boys, but that's not how they did things in Texas. For a state that touted everything was bigger here, people sure seemed to like small talk.

"So, Felicity tells me you're a music teacher?"

"Yeah." Dylan smiled slightly. He had a long thin face with small sleepy eyes and high sharp cheekbones that left deep hallows on both sides of his face. "At Mallowater Middle School."

"He's a musician himself," Felicity chirped up.

Dylan's cheeks reddened. "I play a little guitar."

He had an unusual voice to match his appearance. Quiet and raspy, like Sloan's teenage crush, Christian Slater. He even had that same '90s heartthrob hairstyle, mid-length, messy, and parted down the middle.

"Oh?" Sloan took a sip of her water. Getting to the harder questions was going to require a harder beverage.

"Yeah, I play guitar and write the occasional song." He spun his straw around. "What about you?"

"I don't write anything," Sloan said.

Dylan laughed. "That's not what I meant. What do you do for a living?" He made eye contact for the first time in the conversation.

"Sorry. I teach fifth grade." Sloan felt heat in her cheeks. "In Houston."

"So, we're all educators." Felicity's singsong voice rose above the noise of the restaurant. "Small world."

Sloan didn't want to talk about education. She wanted to talk about Ridge. She hoped Felicity might take the lead in this conversation since she had arranged this lunch. Since she "knew" Dylan, but obviously, this was all going to be on Sloan.

She flagged down the server, and they made their orders. After Sloan took her first gulp of a Long Island Iced Tea, she gathered her courage. "So, I'm not sure what Felicity has told you, but my brother disappeared in the fall of 1988."

"Yeah, I remember the case. I mean, I remember it happening." Dylan wrapped his hands around his coffee cup. "I hate to have to give a disclaimer, but my lawyer would flip if he knew about this. I'm not supposed to discuss this without him present. I want to help you both, help your dad if I can. I mean, the truth matters, but this can't leave the table."

"Of course not," Sloan said. "It won't."

Dylan nodded. "Alright then. Ask away."

"When were you . . . taken?" Sloan barely got the words out.

"February 1992." His eyes stayed glued to the tabletop.

"The police believe our father killed Ridge, but it's never added up," Felicity said. "They never found a body. There were no leads, but now, hearing about Eddie Daughtry, I wondered if Ridge was also a victim."

Dylan swallowed. "I don't remember a Ridge. But Daughtry gave everyone fake names."

Sloan dug a picture out of her purse. "This is him. A few months before."

Sloan felt the booth shift as Felicity sucked in a breath. Dylan studied the photo, his face giving nothing away.

"I'm sorry," he said, handing it back. "I don't remember him."

Sloan sank back into the booth. Ridge was gone. Why was she torturing herself?

"How many boys did Eddie take?" Felicity asked.

Dylan rocked in his seat. "I only knew Logan, but there were others who would come and go."

"Come and go?" Felicity asked.

"It's not like in the movies where we were chained up in some dungeon." Dylan drummed his fingers against his coffee cup. "The chain was heroin for me. For some boys, it was arcade money. For others, it was fear he'd hurt their family."

"I read a few nights ago that Logan Pruitt was riding his bike home from Movie Time Rentals when he was abducted," Sloan said. The image was seared in her mind. The Huffy bike turned sideways on the street; a plastic VHS case opened beside it. "So, did Eddie just look for opportunity, or did he seek out certain boys?" Sloan was more comfortable asking questions now. The alcohol was doing its job. Giving her courage. She wondered how Dylan could tell his story without the help of it.

"Opportunity, I assume. He seemed to go driving a lot, looking for kids." Dylan let out a hard sigh. "When I was twelve, someone in a Luke Skywalker mask assaulted me on the way home from trick-or-treating. He told me he'd come back and kill me if I ever told. I never told. But he still came back."

"It was Eddie?" Felicity covered her mouth.

"Yeah." Dylan glanced behind him to ensure the empty booth next to theirs hadn't been filled. "Four years later."

"How old are you now?" Sloan asked.

"Just turned thirty-two."

"We're the same age," Sloan said. She didn't have to do the math to determine the year they turned twelve. Halloween 1988. The week before Ridge disappeared.

"But you two didn't know each other from school?" Felicity asked.

"We moved here when I was eleven, and I went to Saint Christopher's," Dylan said.

"Oh, so you're Catholic?" Felicity put her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand.

"No, just painfully shy. Mom figured a private school would be easier for me."

Felicity opened her mouth again to speak, but Sloan beat her to it. She needed to steer the conversation back on track. "So, after that Halloween, you didn't see Eddie again for four years?" she asked.

"No, not till I started on the white stuff. Got hooked by a friend, and Eddie was his dealer. He seemed like a cool guy. After my dad kicked me out, I met him to get a hit. He offered his couch for the night." Dylan bent his neck, letting shiny strands of hair cover his eyes. "I got in his car, and it was the car from that Halloween night. It all came back. I panicked, he hit me with something, and I woke up a few hours later in Eddie's attic. Logan was there. He'd been there a long time."

Sloan shuddered. "What did Eddie look like then?" she asked, still trying to recall the face of the man who grabbed her in the drugstore.

"Like he does now. Just a little thinner and with more hair."

They stopped talking as the server approached with their food. Sloan had stared at Eddie's mugshot on her computer last night, and it had produced no memories. As hard as she tried, she couldn't put his face, or any face, on her attacker. "I have this memory," Sloan said once the server left. "Of someone trying to grab me at the store."

Dylan rubbed a sugar packet between his fingers. "In my eight months, I never saw a girl. Eddie liked boys."

The vodka sloshed around in Sloan's stomach. She needed to eat her chicken fettuccine but had lost her appetite.

"I'm so sorry this happened to you, Dylan," Felicity said.

"Thank you. The whole reason I'm speaking out is that there are other victims. I want justice for them. I want justice for your brother. Just because I don't remember seeing him doesn't mean Eddie wasn't behind it."

"Was Eddie a Satanist?" Felicity's eyes widened. "That was the talk after Logan's kidnapping."

Dylan smirked. "I think Satanism was the talk of the eighties. But no. No rituals or anything like that went on. Not surprised people assumed that, though. My old man swore every tape I bought had secret satanic messages if played backward."

"Oh gosh, I remember." Felicity giggled. "My grandma made us stop using Proctor and Gamble because she was sure their man in the moon logo was a horned devil with 666 in his beard."

"How did you escape?" Sloan asked. If it were possible Ridge was one of Daughtry's victims, it was also possible he'd gotten away too.

Dylan chewed and swallowed a bite of his chicken strips. "I got clean. Flushed the drugs. Eddie used his victims to make money, including selling us for a few hours here and there."

Sloan squeezed her eyes shut. And she thought she'd had it bad growing up.

Dylan traced a crack in the table. "The guy I met with was drunk; he passed out. I emptied his wallet and just walked out of the hotel." He shook his head. "It's unbelievable when you think about it. I just walked out. Just got on a bus. Just walked in my front door like I hadn't been in hell the past eight months."

Felicity placed a hand over her heart. "And he never came back for you?"

"No. I was getting too old for Eddie's tastes. I hoped if I kept my mouth shut, I'd be fine. But I still got a gun and learned to shoot. Always looked over my shoulder. Still kinda do."

"And you didn't tell anyone?" Sloan asked.

Felicity nudged her under the table.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

Dylan met her eyes. "It's okay. No, I never told a soul till they found Logan. I worried Eddie would hurt Dad, so I told him I'd hitched a ride to Oklahoma and had been living with a friend." Sloan saw tears forming in Dylan's eyes.

Felicity seemed to notice, too, because she reached across the table and took his hand. "You're so brave, Dylan. Thank you for sharing your story, but we've asked enough for one day. Let's talk about something else."

Sloan wasn't ready for this conversation to end. Even though Dylan didn't remember Ridge, too much didn't add up. There were too many coincidences. The timing, the town, the man who'd tried to take her. "Would Eddie remember if he took Ridge?" she asked.

"Sloan!" Felicity was still holding Dylan's hand. Sloan couldn't tell if this was an attempt at flirting or if Felicity June really was as sweet as everybody claimed.

"You can't trust Eddie to tell the truth," Dylan said. "He's denying everything. Plus, he's got a lot of connections, and I wouldn't want to put you in danger." He pulled his hand away from Felicity's. "I probably shouldn't have even met with you in public, but I figured you may be creeped out if I suggested my house."

Felicity reached across Sloan to grab the check. "Well, I hope we don't get you into any trouble with your lawyer."

"Let's meet again," Sloan said. "Privately."

"Yeah, absolutely." Dylan reached for a napkin. "Do you want my number?"

"I've got it," Felicity's said. "I'll for sure call you."

Sloan shook her head. Felicity was actually flirting with this poor man.

"Sounds good." One corner of Dylan's mouth raised when he smiled, and it occurred to Sloan that he didn't mind the flirting. She needed to get out of here.

"I should get going." Sloan slid out from the booth. Dylan started to stand, but Sloan waved him down. "You guys stay, though. Nice meeting you, Dylan."

"You too." Dylan slowly lowered himself back onto the booth.

"Dylan and I will work out the details for our next meeting, and I'll text you. I'm thinking dinner at my apartment." Though Felicity was speaking to Sloan, her attention was still anchored on Dylan.

Sloan forced a smile. She didn't like Felicity, didn't like being the third wheel, but she'd do what she had to do to get to the bottom of all this.

"I'll be there."