Expecting to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

Move, Bianca!

Struggling, she rolled over, found a rock or limb or whatever to push herself upright when she felt that branch give a little. She gripped harder and realized that she wasn’t holding on to a limb at all. It was too soft. Almost mushy with a hard core. And . . . oh, God, as her mind cleared, she realized the stink was something awful, not a skunk smell at all, more like the odor of something dead.

She recoiled. Backed up. Scrambling and sliding away from whatever it was, the trickle of water cold on her buttocks, she stared at the form—was it human?—lying across the creek bed.

She barely breathed.

No . . . no . . . but . . .

What the hell?

The thin wisps of clouds moved, moonlight shining along the silvery stream. Bianca’s head cleared and she realized she was staring at a corpse. Decomposing, flesh rotting, bones exposed to the scant moonlight, the dead woman—a young one—lay face up in the ravine. Pale hair floated around a decomposing head in the slowly moving water. Teeth were exposed, with no lips to hide them, and black holes were drilled deep into her skull where once her eyes had been.

Oh. Jesus. No!

Bianca threw herself to her feet. Running, stumbling along the creek, she let out a scream loud enough to wake the dead in all of Pinewood County.

CHAPTER 3

Regan Pescoli’s eyes flew open at the buzzing sound. The room was dark. Santana was snoring softly in the bed beside her, the digital clock blinking a blue 2:32, her cell phone vibrating and skittering on the nightstand.

Great, she thought sarcastically. This was the problem with being a detective with the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department. There was always the chance of what Deputy Pete Watershed called “Sleepus-Interruptus.” Watershed was a dick, of course, but even dicks could be funny once in a while.

With one hand, she reached for her cell, missing it and knocking it onto the floor. Stupid. With an effort, she slid to the edge of the bed. Leaning over the edge, she swiped the damned phone from the floor before pressing it to her ear.

“Pescoli,” she answered around a yawn and blinked as she pushed herself to a sitting position. The last thing she wanted to do in her current state was climb out of bed, squeeze into her usual work clothes, and head down to a crime scene. Pushing her hair from her face with her free hand, she tried to shake away the remnants of a nightmare that had been chasing through her brain.

“It’s Rule,” a male voice said. Kayan Rule was a deputy with the department, an African-American who looked like he would be more at home as a power forward on a basketball court than he did in a Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department uniform. He was a good cop and a hunk with a killer smile. “I think you might want to come up to the old lumber camp owned by the Long family.”

“You think wrong,” she said, then, regretting her tone, added, “What’s up?”

Beside her, Santana stirred, his near black hair visible on the pillow in the darkened room. With a groan, her husband roused and levered himself up on an elbow to stare at her.

She ignored him.

“I’ve got your daughter here with me,” Kayan said.

“My daughter?” she repeated, suddenly wide awake, her heart clutc

hing. “Bianca?” As if she had another.

“Yes.”

“What’s she doing there? What’s she done?” Pescoli asked, images of Bianca being caught with a boy, or alcohol, or weed, or all three, running through her tired mind. Perfect. Now that Jeremy, her eldest, was finally starting to get his act together and had become a semi-valuable member of society, his younger sister was taking up the Pescoli Torch of Rebellion. Just what she needed.

“She stumbled on a dead body. At least that’s the way she’s told it.”

“What? Bianca came across a corpse?” This wasn’t computing. Bianca was supposed to be spending the night with a friend.

And this surprises you, that your daughter lied about what her plans were? Come on, Regan, you remember what it was like to be seventeen.

“Bianca’s at Reservoir Point with a dead body,” Pescoli said.

“Right.”

Pescoli tried to wrap her mind around what she was being told, to think more like a cop, less like a mother. “Who’s the victim?”

“Unconfirmed. Female. Teen from the looks of her. Maybe fifteen, or sixteen, around there. No ID. But, there was a girl who was reported missing about a week ago. Friday of last week, to be exact. Destiny Rose Montclaire. We’re checking it out.”