As we come upon the cluster of buildings ahead, the crows veer off route into the canopy of the trees. The smell of a far-off summer rain fills the car.
“You’ve got to be dumber than dirt to be going in there after what you’ve already pulled at the Rutledge mansion.”
I glower at Raelean. “Some friend you are. Oh, wait, don’t pull into the sheriff’s lot,” I say as we approach the building. “Do a drive-by first and let me see who’s there.”
Law Road, named after Jessup Law and not the sheriff station, always has a steady flow of passersby. The garbled rumble of her Camaro chugs as we slow down so I can make sure Oscar’s deputy Bronco is there—he’s my only chance at not getting arrested immediately.
“Shit,” I say when I don’t see it. “He’s not here.”
It’s only Callie, who mans the dispatch desk. Everyone else must be on call. I have Raelean park the car over at Quickies, probably the last place for miles that still has Classic Coca-Cola.
“There’s always a dominos crowd that gathers on Friday nights,” I say to Raelean. “I’ll wait there until Oscar gets back.”
“I’d wait with you,” Raelean hurriedly says as I get out, “if I didn’t have to get back to work.”
I lean into her open window. “That’s fine. I’ll figure it out.” Off in the distance, a dark figure steps within the cover of the trees, disappearing behind the deli.
“But if you’re still here later,” Raelean says as she starts to drive off, “or need bailing out of jail...”
“Yeah, yeah.” I clip a wave, hoping that won’t be the case. I wait for her to ease down the road, out of sight, before slipping behind the deli myself.
Just like at the mansion, as soon as I’m behind the building and catch sight of the picnic table, I’m transported back. Two summers after Papaw passed, I walked down here by myself once. I asked Bubba Dunn, the owner, how much bologna and crackers I could get for a dollar. I think he must have felt sorry for me because he gave me the bottled Coke, the bologna and crackers, and a few five-cent bubblegums. I thought I’d hit the jackpot. I skipped outside with my loot to the picnic tables by the pond out back.
It was the clattering of the trash can lid that scared the devil out of me. I about dropped all my goods. Then I saw him, young Rook cowering behind the trash bin he had just been pilfering through. He was longer than his clothes with how much he’d grown since the summer before. Rough for the wear as well. It hurt my heart something bad, knowing he had to scavenge food from the trash. Shame kept him from looking me in the eye, but it was me who deserved the shame. Never occurred to me he didn’t have a home—or a dollar—to get himself something to eat.
We shared that bologna and Coca-Cola while we counted turtles sunning on a log. We bragged about how many tadpoles we could catch in a single scoop. And discussed how a dragonfly got its name because it didn’t look anything like a dragon or a fly really.
When I finally asked him where he’d been the past year, Rook couldn’t remember. Time had a way of disappearing for him. Long gaps between being a boy and a crow.
“Why are you back?” eleven-year-old me had asked him. Not intending to sound rude or ungrateful; I just didn’t understand.
“The deaths. The souls. They always bring me back to you.” He said this in a way that stole my heart. He’s held it ever since.
That week, Mr. Allen Roberts had died—that’s why Rook had returned. I tried to save the old man after he fell off a ladder, trying to pick peaches from his tree. But it seemed the good Lord wanted him home, and there was nothing I could do. Or so Grandmama had said.
Waiting for me now, Rook sits on the top of that same picnic table, bare feet on the bench seat. Handsome as the devil now, too.
“You following me?” I say, smirking. I take a seat next to him. The road and the sheriff station’s parking lot are both in view from back here.
“Should I be?” He thumbs my chin to the side, getting a good look at my cheek. Heat flushes my face; I wonder if he saw Lorelei clock me.
We sit there a few quiet beats. Suddenly, I feel thirteen again, about to have my first kiss.
A car comes down the road and I perk up, but it’s not Oscar.
“Are you waiting for him?” Rook’s soured gaze focuses across the road at the sheriff’s station. It’s the way he clamps down his words that makes me realize he’s aware Oscar and I were together once. Guilt sends my eyes to the ground. I had wondered if that’s why he’s stayed away these past few years. I’ve also wondered if there were women he was with in those lost gaps of time. But I don’t have the nerve to ask or desire to know.
“It’s not like that between Oscar and me. Not anymore.” I look up at Rook. “It hasn’t been for a long time.”
The tension in his shoulders loosens; the softness in his eyes returns.
“I need to talk to him, about the case. I have a theory,” I start. “About how Adaire died.” I tell him about Adaire’s visions, my time with Gabby Newsome, Lorelei’s necklace—that got me a busted-up cheek—the damaged car bumper and supposed dead deer, and well, everything.
Rook doesn’t doubt me like Raelean. Or think I’m off my rocker like Davis. In fact, he listens intently to everything I have to tell him as if it’s gospel.
He nods, understanding. “Then I hope Oscar will help you.” I hope he will, too.
The back door to Bobby’s deli kicks open, startling us both. But it’s only the butcher taking out the trash. He eyes us briefly, then goes back to dumping the bag when we prove to be nothing of interest.
A random crow lands on the power line near the road and caws out once. “A friend of yours?” I say, not holding back a laugh.
He laughs. “We really need to do something about that smart-mouth of yours.” His eyes dip to those very lips. My thoughts tip sideways.
The crow squawks again, annoyingly loud. Then it dashes off into the trees. Another car comes down the road, still not Oscar.
A thought occurs to me. I quirk my head at Rook. “Do you know who I am when you’re in that form?” I ask, genuinely curious.
He bobs his head. “Kind of. When I’m here—” he fans a hand in the air, referring to Black Fern “—when I’m near you, the crow lets me have control.” It’s odd to hear him refer to the crow as a separate being. But I guess he must be. “Through his eyes, I see souls. I can find you that way.”
I love the idea of this. “And when you’re not here?”
His brow scrunches up. “It’s like a smoky dream. Everything is dim. There are flashes of sights and sounds but a dark filter covers my memories. And I feel far away. I’m not Rook or the crow but something else. Something lost.”
“So you’re not free.” It isn’t a question. It’s a realization that he’s bound to me, my gift, and the mercy of the crow.
“Time passes in odd gaps for me, and the crow does most of the living,” he admits.
But that’s not living at all.
