Chapter 7

Mallowater, TX, 2008

Sloan knelt to pick up another penny from the ground. This was the fourth one she'd found in two days. It was irrational for pennies to trigger her, but they always had. One dumb memory of her dad finding a penny the morning her family fell apart, and she'd never looked at one the same. They'd always make her think of her father.

Jay Hadfield always bragged he was named after Jay Gatsby. When Sloan read The Great Gatsby in high school, she saw little resemblance between the two, aside from the ambitious farm boy beginnings and tragic ends.

Of course, this wasn't the end for her father. Sloan understood that now. He was getting out and only fifty-nine years old. Maybe he'd used his time to come up with an idea or invention that was worth a damn. Or, if not, he could always write a tell-all book. Somehow, he'd come out on top.

For the hundredth time since arriving back in Mallowater, Sloan wondered if she should visit her dad. If she was going to see him, she needed to do it now, before he got out. At least in prison, a visit would be controlled. The last time she'd seen him, she was a girl, still convinced he hung the moon. But she had sent him that letter right before she got married. The one telling him to quit reaching out to her. But even then, she didn't get everything off her chest; some things needed to be said in person.

The clock on the mantle chimed. Caroline would be back from the creek anytime. She spent most of her days there but always came home for dinner.

Sloan flipped on the television. She hadn't missed the news since the body of Logan Pruitt had been found. They kept repeating the same things over and over, but Sloan still tuned in. She remembered when her life was reduced to a news story, remembered how it felt to have reporters camping outside her window. Now, she was no better than the people who had sat in front of their televisions each night and watched her life fall apart.

But tonight, an unfamiliar man was on screen, one Sloan hadn't seen interviewed yet. He was thin with small, haunted eyes and dark, floppy hair.

Breaking news , the words across the screen scrolled. Arrest made in the murder of Logan Pruitt. Edward Daughtry, of Dallas, Texas, taken into custody. Dylan Lawrence, an alleged victim of Daughtry, joins us.

Dylan Lawrence avoided looking at the camera and spoke so softly that Sloan had to turn up the TV to near-max volume.

"So, you went missing from Mallowater in 1992, but your disappearance was never reported?" the journalist asked.

"It was complicated," Dylan said. "After my mom died, I got pretty messed up into drugs. Dad and I got into a fight, and I left."

"But he never called the police?"

Dylan sucked his already hollowed cheeks in. "Let's not vilify an innocent man, okay? I was strung out. He looked for me, but I was sixteen years old. What was he supposed to do? This isn't about my father. This is about Logan Pruitt. This is about the other boys."

Sloan's stomach churned. Other boys?

"Can you tell us if Logan was alive in 1992 when Eddie abducted you?"

"Don't answer that," Sloan heard an off-camera voice say.

"Can you tell us why you and these boys were taken? There are rumors about a child sex ring around Mallowater."

Dylan looked off-camera, perhaps at his lawyer. "I cannot speak as to the specific details of the crime." Silent tears fell from Dylan's eyes.

The interviewer reached across and handed him a tissue. "I understand this is difficult to discuss, Mr. Lawrence. Why now? Why have you decided to speak out about your abduction? Not just to the police, but to the media?"

Dylan brushed his hair out of his face. "Because it's time," he said. "It's past time. If I had told the truth a long time ago . . ." he stopped talking and turned his entire body from the camera.

"I think we're done," came the off-camera voice again, but Dylan held up a hand.

"No, I want to say this." Dylan angled back toward the camera but kept his head down. "I knew what Eddie was doing, and I didn't tell. That's my fault. It's on me." Dylan poked himself hard in the chest.

"I'm sure you were scared," the reporter lowered her voice. "And you were a child, yourself."

Dylan raised his head and looked into the camera. "But now, I'm not. I'm a thirty-two-year-old man, and I'm not scared now. It's time for Daughtry to pay."

Every muscle in Sloan's body went rigid. A child sex ring? Around Mallowater? What if Ridge . . . ? Bile rose in her throat as she stared into Dylan Lawrence's haunted eyes. No. No. No.

Caroline charged in the door, jostling Sloan from her trance. "Sloan, I have to tell you something."

"About Dylan Lawrence?" Sloan asked. "I just heard him on the news. Oh, Mom, you don't think . . ."

A sheen of sweat glowed on Caroline's brow. She pulled out her handkerchief and wiped it away. "Dylan who? No, Sloan, this is about Ridge. I told you he's alive, but I haven't told you the entire story. It's time now, Sloan!" Her words fell out of her in a frantic mess, like bees shook loose from their hive.

Sloan turned down the thermostat. "You're sweating and sunburned. You shouldn't be outside so long."

"He's alive, Sloan! I've talked to him at the creek three times now. He never tells me when he'll be back."

"And where at the creek do you meet him?" Sloan worried about what kind of scene her mother made when she believed she was talking to Ridge. The river was crowded in summer.

"At our old campsite. Honestly, Sloan, where else would he be?"

Sloan tugged at her hair. "I don't know, Mom. In the water? In the sky?"

"Both, Lo." Mom spread her arms out and tilted like she was soaring. "Ridge has wings now. He can fly in the sky and swoop into the creek. My boy always wanted to be a crow, and now he is."

Sloan shut her eyes tight as her mother continued her mock flight around the living room. She can't help it , Sloan reminded herself. Nobody chooses to be crazy.

Just then, Dylan Lawrence flashed into her mind. No, Ridge wasn't at the creek. He wasn't a crow, but that didn't necessarily mean he was gone.

Sloan had just put Caroline to bed a few hours later when the phone rang. She snatched it up before the second ring.

"May I speak to Sloan?" the voice was unfamiliar.

Sloan folded her legs up under her. "Who's this?"

"Felicity."

The name rang through Sloan's head like a cymbal crash.

"Please don't hang up," Felicity said.

Sloan wanted to do more than hang up. She wanted to throw the phone across the room.

But somehow, her body had become petrified stone.

"I'm sorry about the store," Felicity said. "I just wanted to talk."

Sloan gripped the phone tighter. "I have nothing to say to you."

"Have you been watching the news? Logan Pruitt. Dylan Lawrence."

"Yeah, a little." Sloan tried to sound indifferent, as if those two names hadn't been on a constant loop in her head all evening.

"Don't you wonder, Sloan? You have to wonder. It happened right around the same time as—"

"Don't say his name." Sloan clenched her teeth. "Don't act like you care. Like you loved him."

Felicity cleared her throat. "I know Dylan. I mean, I know who he is. He's a music teacher there in Mallowater. I emailed him and told him I'd like to talk."

Sloan shifted in her seat. "And?"

"And he's agreed to meet with me. I'll do it alone, Sloan, but I'd like you to come."

"What about your family?" Sloan spat out that last word.

"They think I should leave well enough alone. But I can't. Something's not right here. I think deep down, under your anger, you realize that."

Heat burned in Sloan's cheeks. "You know nothing about my anger."

"Of course I do." Felicity's voice sharpened for the first time in their conversation. "I got hurt too. We all did."

"Don't call me again." Sloan ended the phone call and then yanked the cord from the wall.