Rough Draft: Snow Road Chapter 1

Snow Road Chapter 1

Sloane Drake

The morning grog clung behind Sloane’s eyes. Seven a.m. was too early—even for an eight-year-old who usually got a full nine hours of. sleep. The closet door squeaked shut, her favorite red shirt clutched in her hand as she pulled it down over her unbrushed hair.

“The bus is coming, Sloane!”

Her mother’s voice boomed from downstairs—an unusual sound at this hour. Her father was usually the one awake; if Sheryl was up, it meant he was already gone to a new job site. A tree frog sang its final rhythm of the morning, reminding Sloane the window was still open. She shoved her arms through the sleeves, wishing the shirt were a tank top in the early September heat.

She lunged across the room, climbed onto the stool, and cranked the window shut, watching the pane slide back against the screen before sealing. A quick flip of the lock, a hop down—just enough noise to signal she was moving. The last thing she wanted was her mother coming upstairs. Sheryl was too much, too loud, when she bothered to get out of bed this early.

“Sloane?”

Sloane opened the door and moved quickly down the hallway, then down the winding carpeted stairs.

“Coming!”

“The bus is about two minutes away—probably at the Stanleys by now. You better—”

Sloane rounded the corner, swinging her backpack onto her small shoulders, and met her mother’s eyes. Sheryl looked wrecked: hair tangled, eyeliner smeared into raccoon shadows, her husband’s bathrobe cinched too tightly around her frame.

“What?” Sloane followed her mother’s gaze down to the red shirt she’d chosen so carefully minutes before.

“You’re wearing that one?”

Sloane’s heart sank. Of course. Here it was again—her mother’s opinion, louder than anything else in the room. Sloane retreated into silence; it was her only defense. This was the part she hated most: the quiet, needling criticism.

“Oh, honey, you should’ve worn the black one with those pants. I didn’t buy the red one for that.”

“That one’s hot, Mom. It gets stuffy in gym.”

Sheryl looked down at her, disapproval settling in like something permanent. Shame crept in, familiar and unwelcome.

“Here.”

Sloane took the paper towel, warm from a freshly toasted strawberry Pop-Tart. Head lowered, she moved toward the door, already knowing—no matter what she wore, it would have been wrong. With her mother, every day was a “should’ve” day.

Sheryl wasn’t happy—had never been. And it bled into everything.

Sloane paused at the door and looked back. Her mother’s disappointment met her own, equal and unspoken. Sloane gave a small wave instead of the three words she wished she could hear returned. A thin side-smile, then the door closed.

Outside, she walked down the steps toward the sidewalk, toward the waiting bus and the other kids. Sometimes she wished she didn’t understand so much. She had never felt like a child—not really. More like something older, compressed into a small body, moving through a life she didn’t get to enjoy.

***

Sloane’s eyes opened to darkness.

She exhaled, already knowing why. The same dream—her mother, that same sharp thread of disappointment. It always came when she was stuck on a case.

Rolling onto her side, she pressed her legs together, irritation flickering through her. Mornings were the worst. It had been too long since she’d had a lover. The young bartender at Jedi’s came to mind—his easy grin, his standing offer. A simple arrangement might solve one problem, but it would bring others.

Her thoughts shifted to Snow Road.

A week ago, it had been one bag. Now there were more—three, maybe four victims. The case had sharpened into something heavier, darker. She squeezed her eyes shut, pushing away the images of the women, focusing instead on the man who had done this.

Her first serial case. The first in Shipman’s history.

Her body tensed again, restless energy with nowhere to go. She considered handling it quickly, burning off the edge before her shift—but instead she threw back the covers and stood, stretching.

It had been too long since she’d ridden at sunrise. Rut would be restless.

She pulled on her jeans and boots, already deciding: saddle up, let her horse run, let the morning air clear her head before the shower, before the station, before stepping back into a case that was no longer just local—now FBI.

Dezi Golden