human being.
Selena tucked in her shoulders, physically fending that idea off. Pescoli had sounded irritated on the message she’d left, ready to wring her ex-husband’s neck. But that wasn’t a news flash. Regan and Lucky had suffered a bad marriage and, as she’d always said, “a badder divorce.”
Alvarez didn’t leave a message, just kept driving along the plowed county road where the snow was covered in gravel and had packed hard over the pavement. To access the side roads, a vehicle had to burst through the icy berm that had been left in the wake of the plows.
Fir and pine trees, needles laden with ice and snow, stood guard as she located the private lane leading to Pescoli’s cabin. Snow nearly obliterated the tire ruts; no car, truck, or SUV had come or gone in a long while.
She navigated the winding lane, laying fresh tracks through the trees and across a small bridge before the cabin came into view. Pescoli’s son’s truck was parked to one side, snow piled high, but the garage door was down and the only lights that glowed through the windows were the colored strands of a Christmas tree.
Alvarez parked near Jeremy’s truck, grabbed a tissue and swiped at her nose, then climbed outside and broke a path in the snow to the front door. On the porch, she knocked and waited. But the house was quiet. No sounds of voices, or a television, or their yapping little terrier came from within. In fact, the place seemed ethereally silent as night slid through the surrounding thickets.
She hit the doorbell and knocked again, but got no response. “Pescoli?” she yelled. “It’s Alvarez!” Her voice bounced back at her, echoing through the deep canyons surrounding this isolated little house. On the porch she walked from one window to the next, shading her eyes against the reflection on the glass, noting that the house was empty, not a light on aside from the soft glow of the Christmas tree. Even the television was dark. She spied dishes on the counter and an open pizza box on a small table, but no signs of life. Nor evidence of foul play.
She walked around all sides of the cabin that hung on the side of a hill. On the backside, where the hill sloped, she peered into a window to Jeremy’s room, but it, too, was dark.
No one was inside.
Once she’d looked through all the windows of the house, she backtracked to the garage, found a small window, and standing on her tiptoes peered inside. Empty.
The whole family was gone.
A bad feeling followed Alvarez as she looked around for places someone would hide a key. Nothing under the mat or in the pots near the front door. She checked under the eaves and on the window casings.
Nada.
She’s a cop. It wouldn’t be near the door.
Alvarez retraced her steps to the garage and searched, but found nothing, then circumvented the house again and stopped at the far side near the back of the fireplace where she noticed a vent. Unlikely.
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
She pulled the glove off with her teeth, then searched the vent and felt a bit of metal hanging inside. “Eureka,” she muttered. Within seconds, she’d taken it to the back door and walked into the kitchen where the smells of pepperoni and cheese still lingered.
“Pescoli?” she called, slowly making her way through the small house. A living room with an attached dining area and the kitchen were empty. The Christmas tree leaned precariously in the corner near the mantel, a few scattered packages beneath its decorated limbs. Magazines and yesterday’s newspaper, with a bold headline about the Star-Crossed Killer, were scattered over a battered coffee table and well-used couch. The bathroom, choked with hair and skin products, was bone dry, no moisture clinging to the mirror or beads of water in the tub/shower combo. Regan’s daughter’s room was a mess. CDs, nail polish bottles, DVDs, and clothes strung over her twin bed and floor. The bookcase was filled to overflowing with stuffed animals and dolls that, Alvarez suspected, Bianca had just about outgrown.
Regan’s bedroom, only slightly bigger and only slightly neater, was vacant.
Alvarez ventured down the squeaky stairs and pushed open the door to Jeremy’s room, a ten-byten space complete with a television, some kind of electronic game system, and desktop computer huddled at the foot of his bed. It was dark except for a lava lamp giving out a weird, shifting glow. Dirty dishes peeked out from beneath the bed and posters of pro ball players and rock bands covered the walls. Above it all was the lingering sweet, smoky scent of marijuana.
So Jeremy was a pothead.
Perfect, she thought. Just what Pescoli needed: a teenage daughter growing up too fast and a son who was using drugs and involved with the undersheriff’s spoiled daughter. She eyed Jeremy’s room and wanted to kick the kid to kingdom come.
But of course, he wasn’t around.
On the nightstand was a picture of Joe Strand, Jeremy’s biological father, though Lucky Pescoli had basically raised the kid and was the main father figure in Jeremy’s life.
Maybe I’d smoke dope, too, if that were the case, Alvarez thought. Then there was Pescoli’s daughter, Bianca, whose self-involvement was awe-inspiring.
As a single mom, Pescoli had her hands full.
Nothing in Jeremy’s room gave Alvarez a clue to Pescoli’s whereabouts. She walked upstairs again and into the kitchen. Standing at the stove, where a frying pan showed remnants of hash browns, she felt like an intruder, a voyeur examining her partner’s life. “So where are you?” she asked, walking to the desk where a few envelopes were displayed, a couple of bills marked Past Due in bold red letters.
There was no sign of a struggle. No indication of any kind of violence whatsoever, just scratches on the exterior doors near the bottom of the wood, no doubt from the little mutt of a dog that was missing, though there was still water in a dish on the floor.
Through the window, she stared at the snow in front of the garage. Slight depressions showed where the last vehicle had driven through. Four, maybe five inches of new snow had piled over the old. Meaning Pescoli had been gone—? At least twelve hours. Maybe longer.
Alvarez took the door into the garage and frowned as she ran the beam of her flashlight over the wet puddles where Pescoli’s Jeep had been parked. How long ago?
Returning the key to its hiding place, she was left with a feeling of dread. Slow-growing but sure.
Something was definitely wrong.
Walking back to her Jeep, she studied the cabin and placed a call to Grayson. When he didn’t pick up, she left a message on his voicemail, then headed to the road that would eventually lead her to Lucky Pescoli’s house.
She only hoped the son of a bitch was home.
Chapter Four
“Oh, God, save me,” a frightened female voice whispers through the darkened hallways as I am finishing my exercise routine.
Ninety-three. Ninety-four. Ninety-five.
I count off each of the push-ups as sweat runs into my eyes and my arms start to shake, my hands flat against the cold stone floor, the fire hissing and casting the room in shifting golden shadows. My face burns, the scratches not yet healed, sweat like salt into the
