Chapter 23

Mallowater, TX, 2008

Sloan smelled mold and damp wood as she climbed the ladder into the attic. "Need a push?" Dylan asked from below.

"I've got it." Sloan pulled herself up into the dark, dank room. Dylan followed closely behind. Sloan used her shirt to cover her nose. "Ugh. Sorry it stinks."

"No worries," Dylan said, but even in the dark room, Sloan saw a green tint to his face.

She took a few more steps before finding the string to the light. She pulled it, and the bare bulb flickered on.

Sloan glanced around the room. Spider webs drifted off exposed wooden beams and straddled an old rocking chair in the corner. The floorboards were dusty and littered with dead moths and mouse scat. Stacks of mildew-stained cardboard boxes lined the walls. Some were labeled in her mother's handwriting and others in an unfamiliar script. Probably Doreen's, Sloan realized, since she and Walt had been the ones to prepare the house to be rented when Sloan left for college.

"Mind if I let in some fresh air?" Dylan kicked a box out of the way that blocked a small window. He pulled to open the window but struggled. Struggled with the latch. Struggled with his breathing.

"Here, I got it." Sloan unlatched the window, disturbing a layer of grime and dead flies on the sill. She pushed it open, and Dylan brought his head closer, taking in a deep breath. Sloan rubbed his back. "Are you claustrophobic?"

"A little." Dylan backed away from the window as his breathing resumed normal patterns. "Sorry."

"I can handle this. Why don't you keep Mom company?"

"No, it's fine with the window open." He turned toward a pile of boxes. "Any idea where to start?"

"None," Sloan said. "Some boxes are labeled, but it looks like most aren't. We're looking for pictures and albums. Oh, and a stuffed bluebird, if you can find it."

"Pictures, bird. Got it."

"Or if you find a stash of money somebody hid up here, that would be great too." Sloan unfolded a step stool to reach a high box. Dust showered down on her and produced a coughing fit.

The box Sloan found was full of Christmas decorations. It wouldn't contain what she was looking for, but she couldn't resist. She tugged out a container of red, green, and gold-colored satin balls. Sloan held one in her palm and scratched her thumbnail against it, remembering doing the same as a child when they hung on the tree.

She continued digging into the box, pulling out strands of thick silver foil tinsel and glass bulbs shaped like tops.

Sloan took her time unpacking napkin-wrapped ornaments commemorating special memories. An engraved brass pair of bells reading Jay and Caroline's first Christmas 1975, a baby's first Christmas silver spoon from 1978, a gingerbread man missing one leg that still miraculously smelled the way their kitchen had the day she and Mom made him.

"Oh my gosh!" An excited flutter filled Sloan's stomach as she pulled out a small Hallmark box.

"What? Did you find something?" Dylan stepped behind her.

"This was my favorite ornament!" She pulled out the appaloosa rocking horse for Dylan to see. "Mom took us to the mall to pick out our own ornaments this year. I got the horse, and Ridge got this little rabbit inside a roller skate. I've got to find it and show him."

"No luck for me yet," Dylan said. "So far, just clothes."

"At some point, I've got to clean this place out. Sell some of it, toss more of it. But this box stays. If I'm here for Christmas, I'd like to put up our tree again."

"You should," Dylan said.

"It must have looked atrocious. Mom flocked it with white every year. New flock over the old. Hodge podge ornaments with clashing colors, but it always made me so happy. Ridge and I would lie under it and look up at the flashing lights."

"Dad and I always cut down a real one." Dylan leaned up against a stack of boxes. "By Christmas, it would sag under the weight of the ornaments, leaving pine needles everywhere, but it made me happy too."

"We should put up Christmas trees more often," Sloan said. "Maybe Christmas trees are the secret of life."

Sloan resumed looking for Ridge's roller-skating rabbit, and Dylan tackled another box.

"This must be the Halloween one." Dylan held up a sheet of mummy and vampire window clings.

"Oh! I wonder if any of our old costumes are in there."

Dylan brought his nose closer to the box and sniffed. "For sure. I can smell the plastic already."

Sloan stood, dusted off her jeans, and looked into the box. "Rainbow Bright!" She pulled out the plastic mask with eye holes right in the middle of the character's blond hair. Sloan stretched the elastic strap over her head and turned to Dylan. "Well?"

"That's terrifying," Dylan said. "Truly. They at least could have put the eye holes over her actual eyes and not in the middle of her hair."

"Right?" Sloan removed the mask. "And look at the rest of the costume. A plastic smock with a picture of Rainbow Bright. I mean, could they not have made it look like the dress she wore?"

"I think you're asking too much from a costume made from a trash bag."

Sloan laughed. "True. I'm going back to my box, but tell me if you come across my Jem costume."

"Rainbow Bright? Jem? Wow."

"Yeah." Sloan knelt in front of the Christmas box again. "I was much more colorful as a child."

"There's a Casper one in here too. Is that yours?"

"That was Ridge's. Leave it out. He'll get a kick out of seeing it again." Sloan heard the mask hit the floor as she continued digging around in the ornament box. "Here it is!" she said, pulling out the roller-skating rabbit.

When she turned to show Dylan, she noticed he had stopped searching in the box. He'd stopped moving altogether. He stared at the ground, taking quick, shallow breaths.

Sloan stood. "Hey, are you okay?"

When he didn't respond, she placed a hand on his shoulder. Dylan spun around, his eyes wide and his hands trembling. He looked frantically around the cramped attic as though searching for an escape.

"Dylan, what's going on?" Sloan asked, her own pulse picking up.

He opened his mouth, but then he crumpled to the ground right beside the mask.

"What was that?" Caroline called from below. "Everything okay up there?"

Sloan knelt beside Dylan. He pulled his knees into his chest and put his head down. His breathing still sounded labored. "Let me help you downstairs," she said. "Can you stand?"

When Dylan raised his head, his skin was flushed, and his forehead was drenched. He held out a fluttery hand for Sloan to take. She helped him stand and called for her mom.

Caroline stood at the bottom of the stairs, and they helped Dylan down. "He must have gotten too hot," Sloan said, but as she was lowering herself down the stairs, she saw what had caused Dylan's reaction. It wasn't the Casper mask he'd dropped to the floor; it was another one.

"I'm so sorry." Sloan scooted her patio chair closer to Dylan's. "I forgot about Ridge dressing as Luke Skywalker. You told me about Eddie wearing that mask."

"Not your fault." Dylan seemed fixated on a line of ants that marched across the porch. "I felt it coming on as soon as I got into the attic. Eddie kept Logan and me in his attic."

Sloan pinched the bridge of her nose. "You told me that, too. I wasn't thinking. I've had panic attacks before. I should've realized what was going on."

"Once I got the window open, I thought I'd be okay. But when I saw that mask," Dylan clutched his hands together, "it was like I was a kid again . . . like it was all happening again."

Sloan rubbed his back. "What can I do to help?"

"You helped. By getting me out of there, by helping me calm down, by giving me time." Dylan turned his head toward the front door. "I just wish your mom hadn't seen me freak out like that."

Sloan swatted a mosquito on her arm. "Mom can hardly talk to anyone about freak-outs, now, can she?"

"Come on, Sloan. Caroline's been through a lot. The human spirit isn't indestructible."

"Well, no need to stay with her today." Sloan lowered her voice. "My plans can wait till tomorrow if you're up for it then."

"I'm up to it now," Dylan said. "Go. Your mom and I are going to watch America's Funniest Home Videos and Desperate Housewives , okay? Don't crash our plans."

Sloan smiled. "Okay, but only if we get our date when Mom goes to bed. You can control the remote."

"How about we look at a different kind of star?" He pointed up to the sky. "We can spread out a blanket and count the stars. And if the mood strikes, I've got my guitar out in the jeep."

Sloan leaned closer to Dylan, touching her forehead to his. "Most guys would have bowed out of my crazy life a long time ago."

"And most girls would have bowed out of mine today." He unstuck his forehead to move his lips to hers. Their kiss was interrupted by a bang on the window behind them.

"Come on, Dylan! Funniest Videos is starting." Caroline motioned him inside.

"On my way," he said, rising from the chair. He smiled at Sloan. "I'd like to stay, but then I'd miss videos of kids falling off trampolines and cats meowing strangely."

Sloan rubbed her forehead. "Sorry. Mom has always had the most annoying taste in television."

"It's fine," Dylan said, opening the screen door. "These days, I'll take laughs however I can get them."

Brad called as Sloan was driving to the RV park. "Still no luck with Daughtry," he said. "I bet he'd talk for the money, but his lawyer won't let us anywhere near him. May have to bribe a guard or something."

"Well, thanks for trying," Sloan said.

"I won't give up. It's important we get to the bottom of this. There's something to it. I'm sure of it."

Sloan grimaced. He had no idea.

She realized she should call the whole thing off now, but she couldn't bring herself to. She still had too many questions. "Well, keep me posted, okay?" she said.

"Yeah, I will. But hey, that's not the only reason I called. Dad gets out Thursday."

Sloan slouched in her seat. With everything going on with Ridge, she'd forgotten.

"And I was wondering . . . " Brad continued, "The media's going to be buzzing like flies. It would be nice if you were there with us. In a show of solidarity for Dad."

"A show of solidarity?" Sloan sat up straighter. "Why would I do that?"

Brad cleared his throat. "I just assumed that since you saw Dad, since you agreed with me about Eddie that—"

"I'm not some PR puppet. I'm an actual human being with feelings," Sloan practically screamed into the phone.

"Okay, okay." Brad lowered his voice. "I just thought you were all in for Dad."

"Well, you thought wrong." Sloan ended the call without bothering to say goodbye.

Sloan and Ridge sat outside his RV, drinking beer and watching the darkening sky. "Sorry I wasn't able to get the pictures. But I'll bring them tomorrow, along with a few other things that will make you smile," Sloan said.

"You coming here makes me smile," Ridge said. "Man, I wish it was fall, so we could head out to the creek and watch a roost. Remember the last time we did?"

"Yes. Flying crows, flying stars." Sloan brought the beer bottle to her lips but lowered it before taking a drink. "You wanted to stay longer. I promised you I'd bring you back. You said I wouldn't." Sloan froze, and goosebumps suddenly covered her arms. "Wait. How did you know we wouldn't go back?"

Ridge picked at his beer bottle's label. "That was just me being an annoying little brother. And you must admit, it's not like you enjoyed taking me anywhere."

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.

"Sloan?" She heard Ridge climbing the steps.

She shoved the photo into her pocket and coughed loudly to hide the glove compartment's sound when she pushed it closed.

Ridge pushed the door open and stepped inside, nose wrinkling at the sight and smell of the trash can. "Are you sick?"

"Yeah, sorry." Sloan wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Told you I'm a lightweight."

"Wow, yeah." Ridge rubbed the back of his neck. "Let me drive you home."

"No, I'm good." Sloan stumbled down the steps. "I'll see you tomorrow." She patted her jean pocket to make sure the picture was there. Its sharp corner dug into her skin.

She waited until she was almost home before pulling over to the side of the road to look at the photo again. The faces had not changed. Sloan stared at the three of them until she started to cry. The crying soon gave way to screaming. She screamed until her throat was raw and her fists hurt from pounding on the steering wheel. Then she put the picture back in her pocket and drove home.