Born To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“I’d rather not talk about it.” Noreen’s voice was a whisper. She closed her eyes, her entire face tensed as from pain.

“Agatha was our late in life baby,” Gerald said. “There were complications with the birth and we knew early on that there were issues. She would be mentally ... challenged. But she was . . .”

“An angel.” Noreen glared at Pescoli. “I don’t see what this has to do with anything.”

“How did she die?” Pescoli asked.

Noreen looked like she didn’t want to respond, but then reluctantly said, “It was an accident. I’d run to the store, hadn’t been gone half an hour. Clarissa, she’s the oldest, was supposed to be watching the younger ones . . .” She sighed and looked up, toward the window facing the front of the house, but Alvarez knew she wasn’t seeing the snow falling outside. Her sight was turned inside herself, to a time she would clearly rather forget. “As I understand it, the boys were playing like they do—did—they’ve always been active. Aggie . . . she was supposed to be asleep. Taking her nap . . .” Noreen blinked and shook her head, dispelling the image running through her brain. “Oh, God, I can’t do this.”

Gerald took up the narrative. “We don’t know exactly what happened, but, as Noreen said, the boys were roughhousing, they had a wooden sword and were running up and down the stairs. Aggie woke up, walked out of her room with her blanket and one of the twins—”

“Cam,” Noreen supplied miserably.

“Bumped into her.” A muscle in Gerald’s jaw worked. “She got tangled in her blanket and ... she fell down the stairs. It was an accident.”

Alvarez met Pescoli’s gaze.

It was an accident. Like Shelly Bonaventure accidently took an overdose? Like Jocelyn Wallis accidentally fell to her death over a railing? Like Elle Alexander accidentally slid off the road into the river in her minivan? Or like Karalee Rierson accidentally skied into a tree?

Frightened out of her mind for Eli, Kacey started for the barn.

She’d taken three steps through the knee-high snow, around the side of the garage, nearly at the gate separating the backyard from the barnyard, when she saw movement out of the corner of her eye.

Her heart squeezed.

Eli?

She turned.

No, much too tall, she realized as the dark figure of a man began to take shape, a man emerging from the back porch.

Trace?

Thank God!

Relief washed over her and she started heading his way. “Trace—” she began to call when the sound suddenly died in her throat.

Fear congealed her blood.

Just the way he moved warned her. Caused the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end. The falling snow blurred the image, but now that he was closer she knew he wasn’t Trace. Dressed in black from head to foot, odd-shaped goggles over a ski mask, a rifle in one gloved hand, he started to jog toward her.

No!

She took off at a sprint, running, fast as she could through the thick powder, churning up snow, getting nowhere. She heard him behind her, coming ever faster. On level ground she might have had a chance, but she was breaking the trail and he was following. Gaining.

Oh, God!

Frantic, she yanked her phone from her pocket, hit redial and started to yell over the cry of the wind. “Trace!” she screamed but her voice was lost in the storm.

“Bitch!” he snarled so close to her and she plunged forward, bracing herself, knowing a bullet was soon to crack her spine.

Faster! Faster! Faster!

Adrenaline spurred her on.

“Trace!” she screamed again.

If only she had a weapon, a knife, a rock, anything!