“A long time ago,” she said aloud. “Another lifetime.” She rinsed off and cranked hard on the handle. Old pipes groaned as she threw her one towel around her and dried off quickly. Shivering, she reminded herself that giving up creature comforts was a necessity. For now. Until she figured out what to do.
She threw on a pair of sweats, then combed out her hair. When she looked into the mirror, her face washed of makeup, her body no longer laden with extra padding or a wig, dental appliances, contacts, or glasses, she caught a glimpse of her younger self and remembered the woman she’d thought she’d be. She felt a pang in her heart as she remembered her dreams of a career, a marriage, and a family—all dust in the wind—foolish fantasies from a privileged girl who’d naively thought she could be anything she wanted to be, do anything she wanted to do, that success was dependent only on her desire.
That’s where she’d made her mistake, thinking her wants and needs were so damn important.
Now, of course, she knew better.
She walked back to the living room. The television caught the local stations, so she watched while searching the Web, hoping for more information about the body that had been found. She sat on the edge of the couch, her gaze flicking back and forth between the bubble screen of the TV and the laptop’s flat monitor. She was nervous about the discovery but wouldn’t have thought that much about it except for that whispered word mutilation, one that caused warning bells to clang wildly in her head. Was he back? Was the dead woman a means to frighten her?
It’s not about you. Remember that. A woman is dead. Killed, possibly. Murdered. It’s just gossip, after all. Unproven. A rumor. Nothing to get upset about.
What are the chances that he’s followed you all the way from New Orleans? You’ve covered your tracks. Relax.
And yet, she couldn’t stop the paranoia that had been chasing her for months. Even now, she walked the perimeter of the small rooms, checking door locks and window latches, then peering through the blinds and the falling snow expecting a dark figure to shift in the shadows or the reflection of eyes to catch in the light.
Shuddering, she walked back to the fire and stoked the flames again, hearing the soft crunch as a log fell apart and sparks glowed brightly. She carried the poker with her to the couch and kept it nearby, within reach if she couldn’t reach the pistol for some reason.
Until this madness ended, she would be forever looking over her shoulder, hiding, worrying that he was out there, bird-dogging her, waiting to strike.
That was the worst part, knowing that he enjoyed her terror, that he got off on it.
No more, she thought, dragging the sleeping bag around her. No more.
Chapter 11
Pescoli sipped decaf coffee and avoided the lunchroom where there was talk of Grayson’s funeral.
Another two days had passed and Joelle had come alive again, taking the bull by the horns and making plans for the service. It was something to do, to keep her busy. Blackwater was involved as well, along with some higher-ups, but Joelle was coordinating with the family—Grayson’s brothers and two ex-wives. He had no children, but had kept up friendly relations with his first wife, Cara, married to Nolan Banks with whom she had a daughter and a couple of stepkids. Dan Grayson had also been divorced from his second wife, Akina, to whom he’d been wed briefly. She, too, had remarried and had children.
The kicker was that Cara Grayson Banks was a half sister to Hattie Grayson. They shared the same mother, and it seemed, the same fascination with the Grayson brothers.
It was all a little incestuous in Pescoli’s estimation.
She turned her attention to the new case involving the unidentified victim and searched the incoming reports. Jane Doe’s fingerprints weren’t registering, at least not according to the information Pescoli had received. AFIS had reported back on the nine prints that were taken, but the victim’s identity remained a mystery. She was not a known criminal with a record and her prints hadn’t been recorded for any government job, either.
“Great,” Pescoli said, tapping the eraser end of her pencil against the desk. Feeling a pang of hunger, she realized she was suddenly starving, despite upchucking in the bathroom before she’d driven to work. That was the trouble. She was either unable to think because she was battling nausea in the morning or so suddenly hungry in the afternoon that eating became priority number one. As if reading her thoughts, her stomach rumbled, and she said, “Quiet,” as if the baby, or her insides, could hear her. Ridiculous. The baby was probably about the size of a kidney bean. She knew. She’d checked on one of those Web sites dedicated to pregnancy, something she’d not been able to do with either of her earlier pregnancies.
Things had changed a lot in the past sixteen plus yea
rs, she decided as she found a protein bar in her desk drawer and unwrapped it quickly. Macadamia and white chocolate and billed as “healthy” when she doubted it was all that different from the Snickers candy bar she’d hidden deeper inside that same drawer, for “an emergency.”
Taking a bite, she let out a contented sigh. I hope you’re satisfied now, she thought, mentally communicating with the minuscule baby growing inside her. A part of her was worried sick about having a child this late in life, another part was a little giddy at the idea. Three children with three different men. Who woulda thunk? Not exactly brilliant family planning nor how she’d expected her life to play out twenty-odd years ago when she was desperately in love with Joe Strand. But there it was. And damn it, the new little addition to her unconventional family would be worth every gray hair she would undoubtedly grow.
She just had to convince her existing near-grown teenagers of the fact. She tossed her pencil onto the desk and noted that the ring on her finger caught the light. She’d finally decided to wear the diamond Santana had given her. She was going to get some guff from her coworkers. So what? She was engaged and that was that. She’d show the kids tonight, not that it would be a big surprise; they’d already had many discussions about moving into the new house and the very real possibility of their mother remarrying.
With one foot out the door, ready to move out and get on with his life, Jeremy hadn’t said too much, but Bianca had thrown a hissy fit, taking the opportunity to turn the whole thing around so that Pescoli’s involvement with Santana was all about her. Pescoli thought about that drama-infused argument at the dinner table.
“You’re only marrying him because Dad’s married to Michelle!” Bianca charged.
“My relationship with Santana has nothing to do with that.”
“Oh, come on, Mom. You’ve been jealous of Michelle from the minute she and Dad started seeing each other.” Bianca reached up and fiddled with the rubber band holding her hair on the top of her head in a curly, seemingly careless knot that Pescoli figured took a minimum of fifteen minutes to create.
“Jealous?” she repeated with a derisive snort as Jeremy had reached for the bowl of spaghetti on the table and spooned out a second huge portion. “I don’t think so.”
That, of course, had been a lie. Any bit of envy she felt for his second wife at the time Lucky had taken up with her had rapidly disappeared. The more she knew Michelle, the less she cared. As for him, Pescoli realized how lucky it was that they’d split. Not that he still didn’t have the ability to push all of her buttons. As long as they were parents, they would always have to deal with each other whether she liked it or not, so she tried to get along with him, even though most of the time she would have preferred to hit him alongside the head with a two-by-four. Not to do any permanent damage. Just hard enough to get his attention.
“Lay off Mom, Bianca.” Jeremy defended her as he pronged two meatballs with a long fork and dumped them unceremoniously onto the mound of pasta on his plate. At their feet, Cisco whined for a treat while Sturgis regarded them from his dog bed in the living room. “She’s entitled to her own life, you know.” From a pitcher on the table, he poured a liberal amount of sauce over his plate while Bianca pursed her lips, her eyes flashing rebelliously as she picked at her dinner.