Expecting to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“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?”