Willing to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

Briefly, she considered reading about the murders online or switching on the news and finding out if the horror of San Francisco had made national headlines and was broadcast here, but she couldn’t face thinking about her mother or the fact that she’d never see her again.

She turned out the lights and eased to the window, opening the blinds a fraction with the wand and staring out to the parking lot where only one security lamp lit the uneven asphalt. A few cars were parked near the building but no one seemed to be loitering around the lot. Light traffic. Nothing out of the ordinary . . .

Or was there?

She squinted and gazed across the street, past the cars and trucks driving by to a gas station on the corner and strip mall directly across the street. Was there someone hanging out by the back of the gas station? Maybe not. She was probably just conjuring up the image, nothing to worry about....

A small flash of light appeared.

Her throat tightened.

“No!” The shadowy figure became more distinct. Definitely a man. He bent his head forward to the flame, lighting a cigarette. She thought about Sunglasses buying a pack of Marlboros.

Her heart froze.

The flare of the lighter reflected in his dark lenses.

“Oh, Jesus.”

Her fingers tightened over the rod controlling the blinds.

He couldn’t have followed her. No way. She’d been so careful, even trying to distract him to the Lakesider Inn.

All the spit dried in her mouth and she snapped the blinds shut. Now what? She checked the door and windows. Everything locked tight. If only she hadn’t dropped the knife. If only she had some kind of weapon. She thought of all of her stepfather’s guns and the ammo he kept in his private walk-in safe. If only she’d grabbed a firearm . . .

Well, you didn’t. So somehow you’ve got to get out of this mess you made for yourself. Just figure it out. It’s what Mom would say. You know it.

Pacing, she wanted to stare through the blinds, but didn’t. Five minutes crept by, then ten, and fifteen. She resisted. But after forty-five minutes had passed in the dark, she couldn’t stand it a second longer and risked a tiny peek.

Nerves stretched tight, she adjusted the blinds and peered out.

The street was empty. And across the street, no one stood in the umbra, at least not that she could see. An attendant was behind the counter of the cash register of the office of the gas station, another one in a red coat filling up the tank of an older sedan parked beneath the brightly lit awning covering the pumps, but no other strangers loitered nearby. She hazarded opening the blinds a bit more and her gaze swept the street as a semi, bed empty, rumbled to the stoplight and cruised through beneath the light as it changed from amber to red.

He could still be out there, of course, but she tried to calm herself, by snapping the blinds shut, double-checking the lock on the door, and dropping onto the bed again. She turned on her phone, set the alarm, switched on the ancient TV with its oversized remote and, as some ball game blared, opened the pack of Cheetos and unwrapped a candy bar.

Her mother would freak if she saw what Ivy was calling dinner....

Mom.

Ivy closed her eyes and felt tears well behind her lids. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. How had the plan she’d worked out so carefully backfired into something so awful? “I’m so, so sorry.”

* * *

Pescoli decided to make the call.

Even though the Latham case wasn’t hers.

Knowing full well that Sheriff Blackwater would read her the riot act.

Despite the fact that she could easily lose her job.

And disregarding any sense of protocol.

She glanced at the bedside clock in the loft that Sarina had converted into a temporary guest room. Not even two AM yet. But that was normal. Tucker had awoken just after one. She’d fed the baby, cuddled him until he’d dozed off, then laid him on the Aerobed where he was currently sleeping peacefully. Afterward, she’d taken his empty bottle downstairs and checked on Bianca, who was sleeping on the couch in front of the flickering TV while some old movie from the eighties was playing.

Pescoli had clicked off the television and tucked a blanket around her daughter. For a second she’d paused, wondering how the years had flown by with Bianca thinking about college while Tucker was just working on rolling over.

Too fast, she’d decided, but hadn’t given herself too much time to ponder it.