Willing to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

On the landing she pounded on the door. “Jeremy?”

Nothing.

She rapped harder.

Bang. Bang. Bang!

Still nothing, not a sound from within, though the dogs in the house had started barking, their muted yips audible. “Come on,” she said, and louder, “I know you’re here.”

She stomped her feet in the cold, then listened and heard something—feet hitting the floor, then the slow, steady tread of her son approaching.

The lock clicked and the door swung open a crack.

“About damned time.”

Her son stood in the doorway, blocking her view to the interior as he firmly held the door in place, barely keeping it ajar.

“I know she’s in there.”

“What?”

“Ivy. I know she’s in there.”

“What’d’ya mean?”

“Oh, for the love of God, don’t play dumb with me,” she snapped, then, for a second worried that the girl was truly missing, that she wasn’t in Jeremy’s apartment but out in the wintry wilds of Montana. On the run. But staring at her son, those thoughts quickly vanished.

Bare-chested, Jeremy was wearing jeans that hung low over his hips. His dark hair was askew, his strong chin shadowed by several days’ growth of beard, and he was definitely barring his mother not only entrance, but visibility, into his abode. “I know what’s going on and, for the record, I don’t like it.” When he didn’t budge, she added, “Are you out of your mind? She’s seventeen. Barely legal.”

His lips tightened.

“And your cousin. Your first cousin!”

A muscle started working in his jaw, but for the most part, he was unmoved and she was sick of the one-sided debate while standing with her baby in the freezing cold.

She pushed past him and, thank God, he didn’t resist, allowing her into what was essentially still part of her house no matter that he thought it was completely separate. Fast-food wrappers, water bottles, and soda cans were overflowing from the garbage can, his game controller wired into an old TV and left on the floor, the cushions from his hand-me-down sofa also on the worn carpet, and the area smelled of stale pizza and dirty socks. But the odor and mess didn’t make her cringe. Nope. It was something else that caused her guts to cringe.

In the darkened corner of the bachelor apartment, tangled in the messed covers of his bed and propped on his pillows, eyeing Pescoli sullenly, was her niece.

Pescoli’s heart sank, her worst fears confirmed.

“What the hell is going on here?” Pescoli said, trying to keep her voice low, though of course she knew. It was obvious. But at least Ivy was still in the clothes she’d been wearing the night before. Had she scrambled into them when Pescoli had pounded on the door? Maybe, but she looked somewhat put together. No bra was left forgotten on the floor, no shirt turned inside out due to being hastily donned.

Jeremy lifted one shoulder. A casual gesture though the cords on his neck were visible. “We crashed here.”

“You crashed? There?” She pointed to the bed.

“Yeah.”

“And you two . . . ?” She waggled a hand between them.

“Nothing happened, Mom.”

“Yeah?”

“We didn’t do anything,” he said, insolence visible.

“You expect me to believe that?”