“You’re putting words in my mouth. I said it’s not a good idea. Period.”
“It’s just on my phone. Mine. Which you looked at without asking. That’s an invasion of privacy!”
“Invasion of privacy?” Pescoli swept an arm to angrily encompass the mess surrounding her, the detritus from Jeremy’s video gaming: empty soda cups, a plate with the remnants of his cheese sandwich, or maybe Bianca’s—that had yet to be determined—several pairs of his shoes scattered haphazardly over the floor. “Everything you do is an invasion of privacy these days.”
“Fine. I’ll leave.” He stomped across the living room and headed down to his bedroom.
“Praise God. He listens.”
“Mom . . . ?” Bianca’s voice warbled from down the hall. Pescoli walked briskly down the hall and peeked into her daughter’s room, where Bianca lay on the bed, big eyes wide and a little teary. “Why can’t Chris come over?”
“When I’m here. He can come over when I’m here.”
“I want him here now. He brings me water.”
“I’ll get you a glass of water. Did you eat any of your cheese sandwich?”
“What cheese sandwich?”
“Jeremy!” Pescoli yelled, stomping out of Bianca’s room and turning to the stairs that led down to his bedroom.
“I asked her! She said she didn’t want it!” he yelled back up at her.
Pescoli returned to Bianca’s room. She looked at her daughter, buried in the blankets on her bed. “Is there something that sounds good?” she ask
ed her.
“Soup.”
“Campbell’s okay?”
“Chicken noodle.”
As she headed toward the kitchen to whip up this culinary delight, she heard softly, “Thanks, Mom,” and she exhaled a long breath and almost smiled, remembering why she’d had children in the first place.
Thirty minutes later she was back at the station, and Alvarez was just hanging up the phone as she entered the squad room. “What have you got?” Pescoli asked, and her partner told her about the sperm donor theory from top to bottom.
When she finished, Alvarez said, “Well?” and Pescoli nodded, processing.
“Wow,” she said. “What does it mean?”
“I’m working that out. But that’s the connection. The common denominator.”
“If—”
“Pescoli.” Cort Brewster’s voice barked her name as if it tasted bad.
“Brewster,” she responded neutrally, turning her eye his way.
“Come into my office.” Then, as an afterthought, “Please.”
“Well, shit,” she muttered under her breath as she followed after the undersheriff.
Brewster didn’t bother to sit at his desk. He stood behind it and Pescoli did likewise, preferring to stand herself.
“I talked to Heidi. She says there are no pictures.”
“Ahh . . .”