Willing to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

One of Bianca’s eyebrows raised. “No, you’re not.”

“As fine as I can be.” She started for the door.

“You’re going somewhere?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“Over to the Long Ranch. I need to talk to him.”

Jeremy’s brow furrowed, his eyebrows slamming together. “Santana said that you should—”

“I don’t care,” Pescoli cut him off sharply. “I want you to lock the doors. Don’t let anyone in. No one. Except Santana and me. Got it?”

“Why?” Bianca asked with growing alarm.

“I think Padgett Long has your brother and I’m going to get him back.”

“Who’s Padgett Long?” Bianca asked, but Jeremy remembered.

Jeremy said, “That crazy chick? Brady Long’s psycho sister?”

“That would be the one,” she said tautly, another layer of ice surrounding her heart. Padgett was certifiably crazy and there was no telling what she would do. And it seemed as if Padgett was blaming Pescoli for all her troubles when she alone was at fault. It was true that Pescoli had killed the man who was Padgett’s protector, a twisted murderer who had earned the name of The Star Crossed Killer. And now, it seemed, Padgett was seeking her revenge.

“Shouldn’t you call the police?”

I am the police. With great forbearance, she managed to not snap that out and said instead, “I will. On my way to the Long Ranch.”

“There are reporters at the main gate,” Jeremy said. “Santana told us. He closed the gate to keep them out, so if you have to stop and unhook it, they’ll want interviews.”

“I’ll take the back road, then. The one Santana uses that links the property.” The rutted lane was wide enough for farm equipment, though usually reserved for horseback riding.

“He won’t like it.”

“He’ll get over it.” She reached for the door, then eyed the dogs, heads raised, ears cocked, waiting for a signal from her. “Keep the dogs with you, okay?” Before either kid could respond she was through the door and into the garage. She backed her Jeep onto the lane and, instead of driving around the lake to the county road, she turned the other way, nosing her rig into the opposite direction, slamming it into gear. “I’m coming,” she said through gritted teeth. “And I’m taking my kid back, you bitch.”

* * *

This time Alvarez was the officer who interviewed Ivy and she didn’t pull out any of the stops. The girl was seated with her father in the same room as before, but Alvarez questioned the girl while Tanaka and Paterno watched through the two-way mirror into the room. Her father was with her, as was a slim, balding attorney dressed in various shades of brown: chocolate-colored jacket, tan shirt, dark brown slacks, and a beige tie—all of which seemed the exact same hue as the thin strands of hair covering his pate. His name was Gregory Knapp, a local guy who’d moved to Grizzly Falls five years earlier and with whom Alvarez had crossed paths a couple of times before.

Ivy was as sullen as she’d been before, still unwilling to say much, playing the victim, but her father was having none of it.

“Just tell the truth, all of it,” Victor told her, “and whatever trouble you land in, we’ll sort it out.”

She stared straight ahead and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Really, Ivy,” he said. He tried to touch her shoulder but she shrank away.

Alvarez asked her again what had happened the night of the Latham murders, and Ivy had gone over her story again. Nothing much changed in the telling, so Alvarez went on to new questions about Troy Boxer and Ronny Stillwell. Ivy kept to her story, insisting she barely knew Troy, had only briefly dated him, had just met him at a party. He was older, could buy beer, and she thought he was funny, until the relationship went sour.

“What happened?” Alvarez asked.

“I got bored with him, okay?”

“And he with you.”

A lift of her shoulder. “I guess.”