Expecting to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“Destiny Rose Montclaire.”

“Yeah.”

“So, what’s next?”

“A little bit of a waiting game.” She explained about the parents ID-ing their daughter, that the autopsy hadn’t been started despite the “rush” that both she and Blackwater had requested. “Later today, I’m told,” she added, then shared a partial list of persons of interest, those who were closest to the victim, including the Justison kid, should it be proven that Destiny had been the victim of foul play.

“She was on the periphery of the crowd that gathered last night,” Alvarez wound up. “Knew some of the kids, such as Justison and the O’Hara boys. But the others claimed they were basically only acquaintances. They knew of her, but had never hung out.”

“Like Bianca. She had her in an English class.”

“I’m going to have to speak to her,” Alvarez reminded her.

“I know. I told her someone would call and set up an interview. You need her cell number?”

“Already got it.”

“Okay, just let me know when you set it up.”

“Probably this afternoon,” Alvarez said as her phone buzzed. Answering, she held up a hand to end the conversation, then walked into the hallway, leaving Pescoli to really dig in to her work day a few minutes after noon.

CHAPTER 8

Bianca slept until nearly four in the afternoon, only waking when she tried to turn over and the pain in her ankle brought her to the surface. Or the nightmares of monsters and dead girls with flaxen hair and black empty eye sockets startled her awake. Each time, she would fall back to sleep. She finally roused and found Cisco curled up next to her. After her mother’s pointed comments earlier, Bianca had turned off her phone and now clicked it on. It had blown up with messages while she’d been asleep, dozens of texts and four unanswered calls. Despite what she’d halfheartedly promised, she checked her texts and listened to her voice mail, but whoever had been calling hadn’t left a message.

“Your loss,” she said to the empty room.

For now, she ignored the texts. She wasn’t in the mood to rehash what had happened the night before.

And she was still mad at Maddie for ditching her.

She rolled over, and Cisco, who had snoozed the day away with her, gave out a startled yelp, then bounced to the floor.

“Sorry,” Bianca said around a yawn.

She felt awful. Groggy and sore. In a bad mood.

Clumsily, because of the damned cast that couldn’t get wet, Bianca wrapped her ankle in plastic, then forced herself through the shower. Afterward, she found a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, then managed to get dressed. Her hair was wet, curly, and currently a dark blond that she wasn’t that crazy about, but she couldn’t worry about that now. She pulled it away from her face into a wet, messy bun and didn’t bother with makeup. She looked like a freak anyway with the scrapes and bruises visible on her face and bare arms. And where could she go wi

th the stupid soft cast?

Nowhere.

Not that she had anywhere she needed to be.

She worked part-time as a waitress at a local diner, but had already left a message with the manager that she’d be out of commission for a few weeks, so she was stuck here, at home with the dogs and her cell phone.

“Lame,” she said into her reflection, then grimaced at the sight of her messed-up face. She felt bad about Destiny. Dear God, no one should end up rotting in a creek. And though she hadn’t admitted it to her nosy cop of a mother, the kids who’d been up at Reservoir Point were asking her a million questions about the girl. Somehow they’d all figured out the victim was Destiny, long before Mom had shown up in Bianca’s room this morning.

She hobbled down the stairs, made her way into the kitchen, and then, hearing her phone ring again, cursed herself for leaving the damned thing on her bed. She muttered as she grabbed a container of mixed berry yogurt and a spoon, then headed up the stairs again. Of course she didn’t reach her room by the time the phone had stopped ringing, and of course whoever it was who’d phoned—PRIVATE CALLER was listed on the small screen—didn’t leave a message.

As she dug into the yogurt, she perused her texts, discovered nothing new, and switched on her television, a recent addition to her room, compliments of Dad and Michelle, a gift for her seventeenth birthday.

The phone rang again, and this time, she snagged it from the bed and answered with one hand while muting the TV with her other.

“Is this Bianca Pescoli?” a husky male voice asked when she answered.

“Yes.”