by Lisa Jackson
“Right here.”
Why was Bianca up there? Whom was she with? Why had she lied? Dozens of questions echoed through her brain.
“Mom?” Bianca’s voice was weak, almost trembling. Scared. Not like her usually bullheaded, opinionated daughter.
Pescoli’s anger seeped away. “Yeah, honey, I’m here,” she said. She was already rolling out of bed, her ungainly body making it difficult. She nearly tripped on her slippers and kicked them out of the way. Cisco, her mottled terrier mix, was on his feet and chasing after her, acting more a puppy than a dog well into his teens.
Bianca whispered, “Come get me.”
“I will.” Avoiding the exuberant dog, Pescoli made her way into the adjoining bath and asked, “What happened? What’re you doing up at the reservoir? I thought you were spending the night with Maddie.”
“I am. I mean, I was. Crap, I—I don’t know. A bunch of kids came up here to play a stupid game. Look . . . I’ll . . . I’ll explain when you get here.” Her voice had risen an octave, and she was defensive, sounding more like the girl Pescoli had raised. Good.
“The body you discovered? You recognized her?”
“Not at first. It was dark and . . .” She cleared her throat, obviously attempting to pull herself together. “Then they ran a flashlight beam over her face and I think . . . I think it’s a girl from school. I don’t know her, but she was in my English class when we were sophomores. Destiny Something. Didn’t he just tell you that? Geez, Mom! I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You’ll have to—”
“I know, but please, please just get up here!”
“Okay, okay. Stay with the deputy. He’s a good guy. I’ll be there in . . . as soon as I can.”
“Hurry!”
“Okay.”
Pescoli clicked off her cell and hit the bathroom light. Wincing against the brightness, she caught her image in the mirror mounted over the sink. Oh. Dear. God. Not that she could worry about it now, but she looked immense. At thirty-five weeks pregnant, she appeared more than at term, her stomach protruding as she stripped away her pajamas and stepped into her maternity jeans, top, and jacket. It wasn’t the pregnancy bump that was the problem, it was her bloated face, her lackluster hair, and the dark circles under her eyes that caused her to cringe. She was tall and athletic—well, usually—but she’d never been a woman who “glowed” during the months of carrying a child, not when she was pregnant with Jeremy when she was around twenty and certainly not now when she was nearly twice that age. Her hair was a reddish blond, loosely curled, and right now, a tangle.
But it didn’t matter, she thought, as she returned to the bedroom and sat on a bench at the end of their bed. Cisco, whining, had returned to his bed, where Sturgis, her recently inherited black lab, lay curled next to Nikita, Santana’s husky. Sturgis’s long nose rested on the pillowed edge of his dog bed, while his dark eyes followed every move Pescoli made as she walked through the room. Pescoli’s heart twisted a little as she considered his previous owner, Sheriff Dan Grayson. She missed him. Grayson had run the department with a firm hand and a cool head. Unlike Cooper Blackwater, the current gung-ho yahoo who commanded the offices of the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department as if it were a military base in enemy territory.
Santana asked, “What’s up?”
“Bianca.” Pescoli managed to slip on a shoe. “She’s up at the reservoir with a bunch of other kids and there’s a dead girl, one she doesn’t know. I don’t have the details yet.” Forcing her foot into the second shoe, she grimaced. How could a person gain weight in her damned feet? She walked back to the closet, then unlocked the safe where she kept her sidearm. “So I might not be back for a while.”
“You sure you’re okay with this?” he asked, now wide awake.
“I’m never ‘okay’ with anything like this. What kind of question is that? A girl is dead,” she said testily as she made sure the weapon was loaded, then slid it into her shoulder holster. “Besides, my kid found her.”
“Even if she didn’t, if Bianca wasn’t up there, you’d go.”
“It’s my job,” she reminded him.
“Yeah, I know.” He swung his bare legs over the side of the bed. Santana made a habit of sleeping in the nude. Which she usually liked. Now, she didn’t need the distraction. “You should be on maternity leave.”
“Yes, Mom,” she said and noticed him raise a dark eyebrow at her snarky tone. “I’ll remember that.”
“Do.” His lips twisted into that cocky smile that had always won her over. He reached up behind him, snagged one of the pillows, and threw it at her backside as she hurried out of their master bedroom.
“You missed by a mile!”
“Meant to,” came the lazy response that trailed her down the stairs.
“Just warning you: I’m armed,” she yelled back at him, though she really wasn’t in the mood for any horseplay. Usually she got a kick out of the mischief that Santana sometimes exhibited, but not when her daughter was involved in . . . in what? She didn’t know. But it scared the liver out of her.
“I’m coming with you!” Santana shouted.
She heard his feet land on the floor.
“Nope. Official police business.”
“Involving my pregnant wife’s daughter.”
“I’ve got this!” Why were they even having this conversation? Santana knew how she felt about her job. She headed across the kitchen and located her keys and purse on a table near the garage door, just as she heard his boot heels hit the floorboards overhead. Well, fine, he could damned well come if he wanted, just not with her.
She went through the door to the garage and slapped the button for the garage door opener, engaging the interior and exterior lights. Seconds later, she was reversing into the driveway and then turning around. As she pressed the remote to close the garage door, she spied Santana’s silhouette in the connecting doorway. From the corner of her eye, she saw him make his way to his truck. She didn’t wait, just threw the Jeep into drive and gunned it down the long drive leading to the county road.
Their house was fairly new, built on a piece of land Santana had inherited from Brady Long, his boss. Santana had worked as a horse trainer and ranch manager for the wealthy Long family for years, though now that Brady Long was gone, he worked for himself. Originally into mining, the Longs had branched out into lumber, ranching, and you name it. They even owned the property up near the reservoir, where even now Bianca was waiting.
Pescoli hit the gas.
* * *
Bianca noticed that her mom was the first to arrive. Less than fifteen minutes from the time the black dude had called her, Regan Pescoli’s Jeep roared into view. Never in her life had Bianca been so glad to see her mother, even though it was really embarrassing, not just that her mom was a cop but that she was pregnant. Nearly forty and going to have a baby; damned near ancient in Bianca’s opinion. None of her friends’ mothers was having a baby and none of them was a cop—homicide detective. These were Bianca’s personal crosses to bear.
Still, Bianca almost crumbled when she spied her mom climbing out of the Jeep and striding over to her.
“Hey. How’re you doin’?” Her mother’s arms surrounded her, and something inside Bianca broke.
“Horrible.” Bianca’s tears started to flow. She knew she should rein in her emotions, that she was probably going to sound like the drama queen her brother, Jeremy, continually accused her of being, but she didn’t care. She was scared. And mad. And beyond freaked out by what she’d seen: the dead girl, the monster, that awful Kywin Bell.
“You’ll be fine.”
Bianca shook her head. She would never be “fine” or “okay” or even “kinda sorta fine.” Not after what she’d seen, what she’d felt.
“Tell me what happened,” her mother said softly, glancing up at the deputy. “Give us a minute. Okay? We’ll be in my Jeep.”
At that second, another vehicle rolled up and a deputy stopped the pickup. B
ianca’s heart sank. Santana’s truck. Great. Her mother’s new husband had arrived. Stepdaddy. Ugh. He wasn’t a bad guy really, but who needed him?
Not Bianca.
Not right now.
He must’ve figured that out because he didn’t come busting over to the car with a dozen questions. Well, he wouldn’t. It wasn’t his style, and Mom probably told him to wait until she’d talked to Bianca. Regan Pescoli—ever the cop.
The whole situation was already surreal with police cars parked everywhere, their light bars flashing blue and red, strobing the parking lot where they’d trapped everyone who’d come to party. When she’d seen the dead body and screamed, disentangling herself and splashing out of the creek, racing along the bank, she’d nearly run into Rod Devlin, Teej’s friend. Tall and lanky, he’d emerged from a copse of pines and put on the brakes, skidding to a stop to avoid running into her.
“What was that scream about?” he’d asked.
“She’s dead!” Bianca had shouted at him.
“What? Who?”
“I don’t know!”
He’d looked over her shoulder then, and his gaze had landed on the grotesque corpse lying in the creek. “Holy shit! Is that what I think it is? A body?” He’d turned the color of death himself, his eyes rounding. “A fuckin’ body? Is that what it is?”
“That’s what it is.” She’d been shaking as he backed away. Wet and shivering, Bianca had tried to grab hold of his arm. “And there’s something out there—I don’t know what, but it’s really huge. And hairy! And it chased me all the way here! It’s . . . it’s a monster!”
Still backpedaling, his eyes searched the darkness as other voices began to ring closer. “You’re fuckin’ nuts, Bianca!” he’d declared, but he’d looked ready to bolt.
“I’m not kidding! It was chasing me and it was like . . . Big Foot. Smelled rotten! Oh, God.” By that time, she’d nearly been hyperventilating. “We have to get help!”
He’d shot one more horrified glance at the creek, backing up, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Too late.”
“I know, but we have to call someone. You . . . you have a phone, right?” she’d begged desperately. “Right, Rod? You’ve got your cell on you. Call nine-one-one!”
“What?” He’d shaken his head, his brown hair flying around his face. “No way! I mean—a body? Big Foot? Are you serious? No. No way! I’m not callin’ no cops!”
“Just call the emergency line. For an ambulance.”
“She’s way past needing EMTs.”
She’d caught a glimpse of his phone in his hand. “Just do it, Rod!”
“Forget it!” His eyes had been wild, and she’d realized he might be on something. “We’re in enough trouble as it is. Holy shit! We—I—gotta get outta here!”
“Oh, for the love of God!” She’d jumped up then and taken a swipe at his outstretched hand, ripping the phone from his fingers. Before he could sputter another word, she’d punched 911 into his phone.
“Hey! Stop!” He’d snatched at his phone, but she’d feinted and ducked under some low branches, scaring some bird. Within seconds the dispatcher had answered.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
With Rod going ape-shit in the background, Bianca had given her name and location, reporting the body as rapidly as possible. “Send someone quick,” she’d cried. “An ambulance!”
“I told you, it’s too late for that!” Rod had screamed at her. “An ambulance? What good is that gonna do? That girl, whoever she is . . . she’s . . . dead! Already rotting. No fuckin’ EMT in the world is gonna revive her. Come on! We have to leave. Now! End the call. You . . . you can tell your mom when you get home.”
“And call Detective Pescoli. . . . I’m her daughter!” Bianca had yelled into the phone, trying to ignore Rod as he scrambled for his phone.
“You’re fuckin’ crazy!” he’d spat, getting his hands on the cell and ripping it away from her. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Now the cops have my number! We’re all gonna be in trouble. You’re an idiot, Pescoli. A fuckin’ hysterical idiot!”
“A girl is dead!”
But he had already been gone, running along the trail into the general area of the parking area. She’d heard him start yelling at the top of his lungs, warning the others. “Cops! The cops are coming!”
“What?” a girl had shouted from a ridge above. “No!”
“Wait!” another voice had cried over the sudden thunder of running footsteps as kids ran pell-mell crashing through the forest. No one trying to be stealthy any longer. Nope. They were all running to save their own skins.
“Hey! What’s going on?” Maddie’s voice had suddenly added to the din.
“Are you sure, dude?” another boy had demanded, his voice carrying down the canyon. “Oh, shit!”
“Help me get Maddie out of here!” another one had hollered. “She’s drunk.”
Someone else had started crying. “Ow! Watch out!” Heavy breathing, snapping branches, dust rising.
In the distance, sirens had begun to wail.
There had been screaming, cursing, and general pandemonium as everyone tried to make it to their cars or flee on foot into the dark woods. The sirens had wailed more loudly. Flashlights and lights from cell phones had dotted the dark hills.
But few had escaped.
By the time Bianca had arrived at the parking area, limping and breathing hard, cop cars had sealed off the gravel lane. The night had been illuminated by the red and blue flashes from the vehicles from the sheriff’s department. Two deputies with flashlights and weapons drawn had begun running along the path Bianca had indicated, the dusty trail that wound along the banks of the creek to where the body lay partially submerged.
Bianca crumpled against the front of an old pickup that belonged to Joaquin Castillo, then realized the bumper was covered in dirt and dead insects. She jerked herself upright as some of the other kids trickled out of the woods to be confronted by the cops. Those who were still hiding, the idiots who thought they could escape on foot, would certainly be identified through the vehicles that had been abandoned and the statements of their friends, assuming everyone came clean.
Had it really been Destiny? The quiet girl who had sat in the back of the English class she’d shared with Bianca? A girl who had barely spoken? A girl with big eyes and a shy smile? A girl no one had really noticed?
Now the events of the night caught up to her and she thought she might be sick, right here, in the front seat of her mom’s car. She fought the urge to puke and instead told her detective mother what had happened. Bianca didn’t hold back. Usually she kept a lot of secrets from her mother. She had to. Not only did Mom think she should run Bianca’s life, but there was just a lot of stuff that was private, things she’d rather not let her mom know about. It was her life after all, not her cop mom’s. But tonight, after being scared as hell, she spilled everything. She’d already pointed out the way to the body, but then she’d led Deputy Rule along the trail herself. She knew, deep in her heart, not to hold back, and she’d made herself watch as they’d shined lights on the girl in the creek. They’d asked if she recognized her. Could the body be that of Destiny Rose Montclaire? The near-white hair was right. But the rest?
She thought so and had simply nodded.
Now, considering it, she shivered again.
“I’m sorry,” she said to her mother, but for once Regan Pescoli didn’t go ballistic, nor read her the riot act, nor even mention that Bianca had been a Cretin to be a part of the party. She didn’t point out that Bianca had lied to her, or that there was a curfew or anything. She didn’t even ask if Bianca had smoked any weed or drunk as much as a swallow of beer. No. All Regan had been concerned with was that Bianca was okay. Which she wasn’t.
Bianca still shuddered at the thought of that pallid body, eye sockets empty and dark, water causing her pale hair to float around what was left of her face.
“It . . . it was horrible,” she said now,
and looked out the open window of the Jeep. No more music now, no rumbling engines, just the sound of cops asking questions, low voices and boots or shoes or flip-flops on the bare, sparse gravel. She wondered if she could ever get the image of the dead girl out of her mind. She doubted it.
“But you recognized her?”
“I don’t know, Mom. Maybe she’s Destiny. Her hair was right, I think . . . she could be.” She shuddered, again trying to eradicate the horrid, deeply etched image from her brain.
“We’ll figure that out. How’s your ankle?”
“Awful.” That wasn’t a lie—it was throbbing like crazy.
“Let’s have the EMTs look at it.”
“No! I just want to go home.” Never had her new bedroom sounded so good.
“That’s not happening,” her mother said, and Bianca noticed she shifted uncomfortably behind the wheel. “Santana will take you to the hospital. For X-rays. I’ve got to stay here for a while.”
“Mom, no!”
“It’ll be okay. If you want, I’ll have your father meet you there.” For once, her mother’s lips didn’t tighten at the mention of her ex, Bianca’s dad, Luke Pescoli. Everyone called him “Lucky” and everyone liked him. Everyone, that was, but Regan Pescoli. While all of Bianca’s friends thought Lucky was fun and kind of cool, even sexy for an old guy, her mom seemed to hate him, or at least be irritated by him all of the time. Worse yet, Mom didn’t like his wife, Michelle, even though Bianca thought her stepmother was pretty cool. Yeah, Michelle was only a few years older than Jeremy, but she was fun. Mom wasn’t. Bianca guessed her mother hated Michelle because she was thin, blond, and fashion conscious, always wore high heels, and looked great in a bikini. Bianca had heard her mother called Michelle a “Barbie doll,” so it stood to reason she was jealous.
Whatever. It didn’t really matter. At least not tonight.
“Dad doesn’t need to come,” she said, then hesitated, wavering, thinking about her run down that mountain.
Regan Pescoli’s parent radar went up. Or maybe her detective radar. “There’s something else.” It wasn’t a question.
Bianca nodded. Swallowed hard.