The First Death (Columbia River, #4)

Rowan removed her hands and squinted, letting her eyes adjust. It wasn’t that bright. The man had brought her deeper into the woods, and the trees gently filtered the light.


“Get searching! Move!”

She broke into a run, not knowing where to go. The man had pulled Malcolm out of their shed early that morning, and she’d been panicking for hours, pacing and crying, wondering what he was doing to her brother. She rounded a tall pine. No Malcolm. And then shoved aside branches to peer under a thick bush.

Rowan didn’t dare call out Malcolm’s name, terrified the man would hit her for speaking or take it out on Malcolm. She doubted Malcolm would have answered anyway, scared of the same results. She glanced at the man. He wore his usual black mask that covered his entire head. His gaze met hers, his eyes angry in the mask’s holes.

“You’re getting colder!”

She reversed direction and sprinted to look behind more thick tree trunks.

What had he done to Malcolm?

Rowan continued to scramble and search. She tripped over roots and sliced a hand on a sharp branch. She and Malcolm were like the Hungry Hungry Hippos. Trapped in a game where the man pounded on their levers, making them snatch as many stupid marbles as possible. No skill involved. Simply a minute of frantic free-for-all to briefly entertain him.

And then do it over again.

But the find-your-brother game was new. Usually he brought them out at the same time to play his sick games. Rowan pushed her hair out of her eyes, sweat running down her forehead.

Where is he?

She just wanted the game to end.

“If you don’t find him, I’m not sure what you deserve. Maybe the hose.”

Rowan ran faster. She feared the hose. He’d used it on them several times, claiming they stank and needed to bathe. He forced them to stand still and soaked them in their clothes. If they moved, he’d swing the end of the hose at them. The metal tip had hit Rowan in the temple when she shuffled her feet to keep her balance in the spray. She’d bitten her tongue to not cry out.

Afterward she’d had soaked clothes, a cut on her head, and a deep sore on her tongue.

Malcolm had made her take off the wet clothes. At least the man had finally given them two thin blankets. He’d draped the clothes in the shed and wrapped her up in a blanket and then done the same for himself. At least it hadn’t been cold that night.

Would he still spray them when it started to snow?

Would he give them more blankets when it got really cold?

Rowan stopped, overwhelmed by the thought that she and Malcolm would still be suffering from this man when winter arrived.

“You don’t want me to hurt him, do you? You’re not trying very hard, so that means you do want me to punish him. I know you hate your brother.”

She didn’t reply and ran around the closest tree, not caring that she’d already checked it.

“You’re forcing my hand, girl. This is all your fault.”

Rowan dashed around more trees, hate and fear driving her legs.

“Maybe you should look under that pile of rocks.” He pointed at a clump of a few dozen rocks. It hardly could be called a pile. Nothing larger than a frog could hide under them.

But she dropped to her knees and started hurling rocks to the side. When there was nothing but dirt and fir needles left, she risked glancing at the man.

“Dig,” he ordered. “Maybe he’s under the dirt.”

Rowan dug. The earth was packed and dry. Dirt wedged itself under her fingernails. She scratched hard, trying to make a dent in the solid ground.

Did he kill Malcolm and bury him here?

“Stupid girl. He can’t hide under there. Maybe he went that way.” The man gestured to her left.

She scrambled to her feet and ran, brushing her hands against her pants, trying to relieve the pressure of the dirt under her nails. Rowan wove between trees, no longer looking, just running.

Maybe I can get away from him.

But what about Malcolm?

She couldn’t leave her brother behind. Her pace slowed, and she worried she was about to get lost. The woods suddenly opened up and a river appeared. Surprised, she slammed to a halt. She hadn’t known there was a river near their prison shed.

Rowan stepped onto the river rocks and froze. Her brother lay on his back, his feet in the river. Slowly moving closer, she saw his eyes were gone.

Rowan shot up out of bed, her heart pounding, terror shooting through her limbs. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and sat there, trying to catch her breath. Thor pressed against her leg, and her hand sank into his fur.

It’s a fucking dream.

That never happened.

Or did it?

She strode out of her bedroom and into the kitchen, blindly grabbed a bottled water from the fridge, and drank. She wasn’t thirsty. She needed the shock of the cold. Rowan wiped her mouth, took several deep breaths, and ordered her heart to slow down.

“I shouldn’t have used a sleeping pill,” she muttered. After getting home from the party, she’d taken the pill because in the past she’d struggled to sleep the night of Malcolm’s birthday. It’d seemed like a good solution, but combined with alcohol from last night, the pill had created a very vivid dream. Clearly influenced by the dead body she’d found in the river the day before.

Her subconscious had combined the dead woman with the memories of her brother.

But it seemed so real.

She flexed her fingers, still feeling as if she had dirt under her nails.

Am I blocking something?

Rowan had met with therapists for years, working through the trauma Jerry Chiavo had forced on her and her brother. She’d been home for months before she told a therapist about the games Jerry had made them play. Sibling against sibling. Pain. Punishment. Guilt.

So many horrific memories.

Some she’d waited years to share. Rowan couldn’t recall if she hadn’t wanted to talk about them or if she had suppressed them. The therapist had always claimed they were suppressed, but Rowan remembered the guilt she’d felt because she’d been hesitant to share.

Which could mean I remembered . . . I just didn’t want to talk about it.

It was 4:30 a.m., and she didn’t see the point in trying to sleep anymore. Rowan sighed and started her coffee maker, knowing what she needed to do. Her favorite therapist had taught her how to work through bad dreams, pick them apart, study each piece from a distance.

It took away the fear and broke them into manageable pieces.

Thor sat by his bowl, his black eyes locked on her every movement.

food

“It’s too early, Thor. You’ll pester me for dinner at two o’clock.”

food

“How about a snack instead?” She got his canister of snacks out of a cupboard. The rapid wag of his tail told her he approved.

Thor never refused snacks.

He gently took the dried meat from her hand and trotted away to chew it in the dog bed near her sofa.

Rowan watched the coffee stream into the glass carafe. “I can’t wait.” She pulled out the pot and stuck her mug under the stream. Her cup full, she slid out a chair at the table in her kitchen nook and caught her reflection in the windows, her yard impossible to see in the black night.

I look like I haven’t slept.

I don’t think I did.

As she sipped her potent coffee, she let her mind carefully wander through what she could recall of the dream. Running through the trees. Searching for Malcolm. Jerry threatening to hurt them.

Her hand tightened on the mug as she remembered throwing the rocks aside, simply doing as Jerry said, knowing it was pointless.

I can still feel the rocks.

“Jesus Christ.” She took a big gulp of coffee and welcomed the startling burn in her mouth and down her throat. Her brain had cooked up quite the dream, combining elements from her past and her present. “No more sleeping pills.”

She allowed the image of her brother at the creek to skim across her mind. It had never happened. Malcolm had been alive the last time she’d seen him. The creek image was from the day before. She made herself remember the woman, replacing the image of Malcolm with the right one.

It’s still horrible to see.

Rowan had seen many dead people in her lifetime; it came with SAR. Each one was branded into her memory.





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