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.

Sloan knocked on the warped screen door. It seemed silly to knock on the door she'd barged in and out of for nineteen years, but this wasn't her home anymore. She didn't have a home anymore.

Sloan held her breath as the door scraped open. And just like that, she was face-to-face with the woman she hadn't faced in thirteen years.

Her mom held the door open, the other hand on her hip. Well, aren't you going to come in?" There was no hint of emotion in Caroline Radel's voice.

"Hi, Mom," Sloan said, stepping through the threshold. It looked even smaller inside than she remembered. Growing up, Sloan had always been a little embarrassed by their home. Her friend Jenny lived in a nice house in town. It wasn't a mansion, but it had an entryway, two bathrooms, a dining room with a table that sat eight, and a never-ending hallway to summersault down.

Three steps into Sloan's home, and you were already in the middle of the living room. A few more, and you'd find yourself in the kitchen, so crowded that one side of the four-seater table had to be pressed against the wall when not being used. A glance to the left before entering that tiny kitchen would reveal a compact hallway crammed with two bedrooms and a single bathroom. It was the kind of house where the back door was visible from the front—the kind of house not built for summersaults. It was a marvel that any of them could keep secrets in a house this small.

At least it looked better on the inside than on the outside. A pungent smell of lemon polish and window cleaner permeated the stuffy air. Sloan opened the window by the front door.

"Did Walt and Doreen clean the place up?" Sloan noticed a few unfamiliar paintings hung on the walls and a framed photo of Sloan and Caroline on the mantle next to a ceramic collection of owls. "And decorate?"

"Well, somebody had to."

Sloan looked at her mom. Like the house, Caroline had seen better days. Dark bags settled under her eyes, with deep-set wrinkles around her mouth, and her once silky, almost white-blonde hair was coarse, ash-gray. Both Sloan's parents once had beautiful blonde hair. Sloan's was always a darker blonde, the color of dirty dishwater. Nothing about her physical appearance had been quite up to par with her beautiful parents. She was like the copies that came out of the ancient photocopier in the teacher's lounge at her school. You could sort of make out the original, but it was mostly a grainy mess.

"I certainly haven't been able to clean, seeing as how I just broke myself out of the nuthouse. The one you locked me in and never even visited."

"Considering you hardly ever even took my calls, I didn't figure a visit would go over well," Sloan said.

"What did you expect? That I could just forgive you for abandoning me? Not a chance."

Sloan threw up her hands. "Yet I'm supposed to forgive you?"

Caroline rolled her eyes. "I was always there when you were growing up."

"Physically, maybe, but—" Sloan rubbed her forehead. "Whatever. It doesn't even matter. All that matters is now. What's the plan?" she snapped. "How will you survive? Pay for your meds?" It was a mistake to try to reason with Caroline, but Sloan wouldn't take the blame for this. She'd worked her ass off to assure her mom got the best care possible. All it took was her mom's signature to throw it all away.

"I don't need meds, Sloan. I never did. Two days clean, and I've never been better," she said, lighting a cigarette.

Sloan rubbed her face, refusing to engage further. She looked into the void of her mom's eyes and tried to remember who she'd once been. The woman who had put her children's shirts in the dryer every winter morning so they'd be warm, the woman who sat through hours of Chutes and Ladders, the woman who had loved Sloan so well. "Okay, Mom. We'll figure it out."

Caroline flicked cigarette ash on the floor. "Walt and Doreen will help me. And their boy . . . what's his name?" She smirked.

Sloan stomped on the ash. "You know his name. He brings you Whataburger every Sunday."

"Not every Sunday." Caroline took another puff of the cigarette. "He's married. To one of the Sullivan girls. The real pretty one."

Sloan stiffened. "Vickie. Yeah, I heard."

"The one that got away, eh?" Caroline punched Sloan's shoulder.

"No, Mom. Not the one that got away. The one that grew up and made a life, just like I did."

Caroline grabbed a blue Solo cup to tap ash into. "That's right. You got married too. Or so a little birdie told me. I certainly wasn't there to zip up your gown."

"We didn't have a wedding," Sloan said. "Eloped in Vegas."

"Vegas. Trashy, trashy."

"Well, when your dad's not available to walk you down the aisle, you might as well let Elvis do it."

Caroline's eyes roamed down to Sloan's hand. "Are you getting your ring cleaned?"

Sloan jerked her hand back. She'd only quit wearing the ring a few weeks ago, her empty finger a constant reminder of everything in her life that was missing. "It didn't work out."

Sloan's mother blew out a breath. "Well, hell. I tried to tell you, girl. You can't trust a man. Not any of them, not ever. I figured growing up with that sonofabitch Jay Hadfield as your daddy might've taught you that. But you're like your momma—gotta learn the hard way."

Sloan's heart clenched at the sound of her father's name. She walked into the kitchen. "How are you on groceries?"

"The Dawsons brought me a few things. I can make do."

Sloan stepped into the pantry. It had always been full growing up. They were never rich, but they always had enough. Sloan remembered her mother's obsessiveness about the order of the pantry. After they bought groceries, Caroline would take everything out of its box and put it into plastic containers. Cereal had white lids, crackers blue. Labeled cans for flour, sugar, coffee, and tea. Canned goods in rows, spices organized alphabetically. "You'll learn soon enough, Lo," her mom once said when Sloan asked her why she bothered. "There is so very little this man-made world allows women to have control of. The pantry is one of them, so I figure I might as well take advantage." Sloan didn't understand then, but she did now. She understood a lot more now. Like what led her mom to knock all those orderly cans to the ground that long-ago night. She understood why she'd taken the time to remove each lid off its plastic container and fling its contents across the floor. She even understood why her mother had lied to her about why she did it. "I'm just missing my daddy," Mom had told her. Sloan's granddad had died a few months before. Sloan missed him too. So much that she understood the need to break something. So, she'd gone to bed without even realizing that night had been the beginning of the end.

Sloan drove an hour to Tyler for groceries. Mallowater only had one grocery store. She might have found everything she needed there but would have found plenty she didn't need too. Plenty of eyes boring into her, plenty of questions she didn't want to answer. She could be inconspicuous in Tyler. And it afforded her another couple of hours that she didn't have to be locked inside that tiny house with her mother. Sloan wondered how she'd get through a week, much less an entire summer. She needed to get Caroline back in that home, and fast.

Sloan took her time at Wal-Mart. She didn't have a list, so she wandered down every aisle, trying to guess what her mother might eat. Halfway down the cereal aisle, she paused, trying to decide between something sensible and something chocolate, when someone stopped behind her. Not Noah, she thought. Anybody but Noah.

She grabbed a box of Cocoa Puffs and continued to walk. The person behind her moved too. Sloan sped up. By the time she reached the end of the aisle, the other cart had stopped again. She laughed at herself for being paranoid. Other people needed cereal. Noah wouldn't be in Tyler. Still, she couldn't stop herself from turning to make sure.

She saw the red hair first, made even more vivid under the bright fluorescent lighting. Sloan's blood and all its heat settled in her face. She stood frozen, staring at Felicity as Timbaland's "Apologize" blared through the store's speakers . As much as she hadn't wanted to see Noah, this was worse. Of all the stores in Tyler, of all the aisles.

Felicity's oversized, cartoon princess eyes grew even wider as she stood staring back at Sloan. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, like Sloan was a sea witch who'd stolen her voice.

Sloan pulled at her purse with shaky hands. Once she had it, she took a step backward and then froze. The entire store spun.

"Sloan? Are you okay?"

Sloan didn't even realize she had unstuck her feet until she found herself running out of the store. She fumbled with her keys to unlock her car door, praying it would start the first time. She let out the breath she'd been holding when the engine roared to life. Coming to Tyler had been a mistake with them living here. She guessed there really was no place for her to hide anymore.