But when the door closed hard behind him, she actually second-guessed herself.
And she hated that.
Chapter 8
Dylan O’Keefe, here, in Grizzly Falls?
What were the chances?
Alvarez had thought that when she’d left the force in San Bernardino County, she’d never lay eyes upon him or hear his name again. At least that’s what she’d hoped. It was surreal that he’d shown up here, searching for a runaway delinquent who could be the son she’d given up as a teenager herself.
Now as she rinsed out their coffee cups and tried not to notice how empty the house felt without Roscoe, she wouldn’t allow herself to dwell on O’Keefe. But she did open the e-mail O’Keefe had sent her and print out the pictures of the boy who could be her own flesh and blood. Again, she studied his features in minute detail, searching for any telltale hint of resemblance to her or anyone in her family. “Who are you?” she whispered, her heart heavy, old pain suddenly raw. Determined to stay as clearheaded as possible, she reined in her galloping emotions and attempted to think logically. She wasn’t going to allow herself the luxury of falling into a million pieces. No way would she allow her personal involvement to cloud her judgment. She e-mailed a detective she knew with the Helena PD and asked about Gabriel Reeve and the crime for which he was sought.
Now that she’d been dragged into this mess, she couldn’t just turn her back on it, no matter how painful the truth might be. Nor could she avoid O’Keefe, even though she wanted to avoid him. Big-time. Things between them had never been good and now ... Well, she wouldn’t even go there. You’ll have to see him again. Like it or not. And Gabe, now that you know he could be your son, you’ll have to find out.
A part of her cracked inside. For so long, she’d stuffed down all her emotions about the child, the infant who had been the innocent in the horror that had been a part of her life when she’d been a teenager herself. “God help me,” she whispered, though her faith in a higher being had been destroyed years before. A woman of science, she had denied her Catholic upbringing, refused to enter a church, never sought counsel with a priest, but all of that might be about to change.
Upset, she grabbed her jacket, badge, keys and cell phone and decided to look again for her dog. She’d walk along the jogging path they always took, hoping that he’d strayed onto a familiar trail, but as she half jogged through the night, feeling the depth of the cold in her soul, she knew she wouldn’t find him, just as surely as she knew her life, tonight, had been changed forever.
Pescoli hated decorating the Christmas tree. Well, at least she hated decorating it alone. She mentally kicked herself from one side of the state to the other for not going over to Santana’s place tonight. Instead, she was here, with Cisco, looking at some of the ornaments she’d decided to save and wondering what had possessed her.
From the looks of it, mice or rats or God knew what else had gotten into some of her favorite ornaments, so the snowflake Bianca had constructed in the fourth grade had frayed and the already-painted, cracked eggshell with Jeremy’s first-grade picture had been crushed to dust. “Time to move on,” she told herself, and considered phoning Santana, asking him over, then discarded the idea. For now. She looked at the faded ornament that said, “Baby’s first Christmas,” painted with teddy bears wearing Santa’s hat and inscribed with Jeremy’s name and the year of his birth. Remembering how she and Joe together had placed the ornament on a low branch and taken a picture of their cuddly baby boy dressed in red beneath the tree caused her throat to clog. Jeremy had gazed up at the shiny ornaments and winking lights with wonder.
Where had the time gone?
Now, it was all she could do to keep him in college, working and out of trouble. Tall and strapping, Jeremy was the spitting image of his father. And tonight, she had no idea where he was, but she was giving him his space, because he was over eighteen, even if he was still living under her roof.
As for Bianca, she was out Christmas shopping with friends and wasn’t expected to return for another hour.
“Just you and me, huh?” she asked the dog.
Her thoughts strayed to Jeremy’s father, Joe Strand, a decorated cop, and a halfhearted husband. No matter what fantasies Jeremy and she had concocted, the truth was that had Joe lived, he and Regan would probably have divorced. They’d been heading down that slippery slope before a bullet had put an end to his life and any chance that they’d find the elusive and perhaps nonexistent happy ending.
Clearing her throat, she hung the silly little ornament on the tree and again told herself to get a life. The kids were nearly grown.
But not quite.
She wasn’t usually a nostalgic person, but the holidays always brought out the worst in her.
As if sensing she needed to be cheered up, the dog barked sharply, front feet lifting off the floor in his enthusiasm. “Yeah, I know. Stupid, huh? Hey, look what I’ve got.” Tail wagging frantically, he trotted after her to an overstuffed pantry, where on the top shelf she found a nearly empty box of doggie biscuits for Cisco. With an excited yip, he danced for the treat and Pescoli felt better.
“Good boy,” she said, and wondered where the little elf suit Bianca had bought him had ended up just as her cell phone jangled from somewhere nearby. On the second muted ring, she found the phone in the pocket of the jacket she’d slung over the back of one of the kitchen chairs.
Glancing at the screen as she answered, she recognized the number of the station. “Pescoli,” she said, but was already pushing an arm through the sleeve of her jacket. If someone from the sheriff’s department was calling after nine at night, it just wasn’t going to be good news.
Noni in dispatch was on the line. “Got a call from Trilby,” she said when Pescoli answered. Trilby Van Droz was one of the department’s road deputies. “She received a call for an abandoned vehicle found by the driver of a snowplow for Long Logging. Up on a logging spur off East Juniper Lake Road. Van Droz checked to make sure no one was inside and scraped off the plates to run them. The 1995 Toyota Camry is registered to Lara Sue Gilfry. Van Droz thought you’d be interested.”
“I am,” Pescoli said, all of her melancholy for Christmas temporarily shelved as she found her boots. “And I don’t want the car moved. Yet. Not until I get up there.”
“I’ll let her know.”
Adrenaline firing her blood, Pescoli laced her boots, then jammed her hands into g
loves, grabbed her sidearm and headed for the garage. She’d call Alvarez on the way.
“So what do you know?” Alvarez asked as she climbed into Pescoli’s Jeep and strapped in. Pescoli was already backing out of the driveway, snow spraying from under the tires.
“Not much. I did talk to Trilby; she was first on the scene and she says there’s no sign of foul play, but then there’s nearly a foot of snow on the vehicle. Until it’s towed to the garage and the crime scene guys go over it, who knows?”