As she squinted into the darkness, her eyes thinning on the distant shore of the lake, she felt a strange uneasiness. The hairs at the base of her scalp lifted in warning, as if something evil, unseen but malicious, was staring back at her.
You’ve spent too many years as a detective, seen too many horrific acts, witnessed too much carnage, and face it, though Tucker’s six months old, your hormones are probably still out of whack, and on top of all of that you’re sleep deprived—seriously sleep deprived. There is nothing malevolent lurking in the shadows, no one or nothing evil hiding in the forest. Go to bed. Get some damned sleep.
Turning, she reached for the handle of the door as a gust of wind swept across the frozen water, rushing past her and seeming to whisper:
I see you.
But that was crazy.
And then another gust.
I see everything.
“Who are you?” she whispered, her blood running cold, but as she heard her own words, she shook her head. For God’s sake, no one had said anything. Just her own fears suggesting the words on the wintry air, just her exhaustion causing her to hallucinate. Hell, she was still half asleep . . . it was nothing. She didn’t believe in ghosts or tarot cards or Ouija boards or Sasquatches—especially not Sasquatches—or anything the least bit supernatural. Pescoli would leave all that paranormal crap to Grace Perchant, the local “ghost lady” who lived alone except for a couple of wolf-dog hybrids. Grace claimed she could talk to the dead and see into the future.
Pescoli definitely didn’t.
She walked into the house again, heard her husband’s even breathing, and silently chided herself for being so susceptible. Everything was fine.
But as she locked the door she reminded herself that her service weapon was still locked in a safe in the closet. She then slid into the bed and nestled close to Santana. He murmured something in his sleep and flung an arm around her waist, the warmth of his body invading her own. She closed her eyes, willing herself to relax, but knew that it would be hours rather than minutes before she’d fall asleep again.
* * *
Pescoli was certain she’d barely shut her eyes when her cell phone chirped, then vibrated against her nightstand, buzzing loudly.
“No,” she whispered, and pulled the covers over her head. She didn’t care who it was—she couldn’t answer the damned phone, not when she was more tired than she’d ever been in her life. Squeezing her eyes shut, she heard her cell fall onto the floor where it buzzed again.
Flinging off the duvet cover, she glared for a second at the bedroom ceiling before giving herself up to the fact that she never would get enough sleep. Not with two teenagers and one infant living under her roof. Glancing over, she noted that Santana wasn’t in bed with her.
No surprise there; he was always up and at ’em early with the livestock, feeding the horses, cleaning stalls, getting ready to exercise and train the mares, geldings, and stallions in his care.
“Fine,” she muttered, and leaned over the edge of the bed to scoop up the phone.
Alvarez’s name showed on the small screen.
Great.
Why the hell was her ex-partner calling so early? Seven thirty in the damned
morning. Then again, Alvarez had probably been up for hours, riding a stationary bike at the gym, or taking a yoga class, or sipping herbal tea, or already hard at work.
“Yeah?” Pescoli growled. She pushed herself up in the bed, propping her back with the pillows, shoving her mass of curls from her forehead. “Do you know what time it is?”
“I wanted to make sure you were awake,” was the all-too-chipper reply.
“Hardy-har-har.”
Alvarez, with her damned routines, by-the-book attitude, and even-tempered, logical brain, was a self-professed “morning person.” Sometimes she bugged the hell out of Pescoli and right now was one of those times. “I thought you’d be up with the baby.”
“Not yet.”
“I assumed he was on a schedule.”
“He didn’t get the memo,” Pescoli said, but grudgingly admitted, “but I gotta get up anyway. I don’t hear anyone else stirring and Bianca’s got school.” Yawning, she flung open the covers just as she heard water running in the hall bath. Her daughter was stepping into the shower. Good.
“Blackwater’s been on the warpath.”
“What else is new?” The sheriff, a younger gung-ho type who had stepped into the job after the death of Dan Grayson, was always trying to improve the department, which, she supposed, was his right. But his take-charge and while you’re at it take-no-prisoners attitude annoyed her. Then again, a lot of things annoyed her. Sleep deprivation had not improved her temperament.