Born To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“Yes.” She knew he wouldn’t remember much about waking up, maybe nothing, but she couldn’t help herself from squeezing his hand. “Trace, I need to tell you something,” she said.

“Hmmmm . . .” He was drifting again.

“First of all, Leanna turned out to be okay. More than okay. I think she saved your life.” He didn’t respond. Probably hadn’t heard. “And there’s something else,” she admitted, leaning close over the bed. “I love you.” She smiled, though she felt warm tears slide down her face. “It’s crazy and I know it, but damn it, I love you.”

“I know . . .” His voice was far away. “You’re gonna marry me.”

He was still out of it; didn’t know what he was saying, but it filled her heart with joy. “We . . . we’ll talk about it when you’re better . . .”

His eyes opened suddenly and in that split second his gaze was clear. “I am better,” he said, and reached up quickly, his fingers sliding around her nape, as he lifted his head from the pillow and pulled her close so that their noses were nearly touching. “And you’re gonna marry me, Dr. Lambert.”

Before she could say a word, he pressed his lips to hers in a kiss that was as crushing as it was desperate. “No arguments,” he said when he finally released her and fell back on the sheets, spent, his eyes closing again.

“Faker,” she accused.

He didn’t respond.

She felt a smile tug on her swollen lips and she didn’t say it, but thought. I am going to marry you, Trace O’Halleran. Count on it.

Epilogue

“ Come on, come on ... we’re going to go caroling!”

Joelle, wearing ridiculous, red felt reindeer antlers was herding everyone into the lobby.

Pescoli looked up from her desk where she was studying the death certificates and newspaper reports on the two sisters of Cameron Johnson who had died young . . . in accidents. “I am not caroling! I’ve got work to do.”

“Oh, don’t be a Scrooge!” Joelle admonished before clipping off in her clear high heels that looked like something Barbie would wear . . . well, and Michelle. Yeah, Lucky’s young wife would love those heels.

It was only a week until Christmas and Joelle was really ramped up for the holiday. Christmas music and cookies and garlands and even the spinning tree with its fake presents stacked beneath it. What more could one woman do to a government office?

Not that Pescoli paid much attention. She’d had more than enough to deal with in her own life. For starters, Santana was pressuring her big-time. It turned out that Brady Long had left him part of his immense estate and Nate thought she and her children and the dog should move in with him.

As if it were just that easy.

Nope, she thought, clicking through the computer screens.

She wasn’t convinced, though a father figure for her kids certainly wouldn’t hurt. Jeremy, sick of her nagging and bored with his life, had finally agreed to go back to school come January and Pescoli was crossing her fingers that he wouldn’t change his mind again. As for his involvement with Heidi Brewster, it was still simmering, but the kids were somehow keeping it on the “down low,” which may or may not be a good thing, depending on how you looked at it.

Bianca, well enough to go back to school, had actually started talking to some other boy who’d stopped by a couple of times, some kid on the basketball team who actually called her Ms. Pescoli, rather than ignoring her. Chris was still hanging out, of course, but it definitely looked like that particular romance was dying on the vine.

And none too soon.

As for the entire Secret Santa debacle, Pescoli had decided to play along and give the undersheriff a bottle of wine with its own little knit stocking cap that Joelle, Pescoli was certain, would do backflips over. Pescoli, herself, found it kind of gaggy. But she couldn’t come up with anything else. The Oregon pinot noir had been on a special sale, keeping under the ten-dollar limit, and in Pescoli’s mind, the gift was a bit of an olive branch. At least that’s what she hoped.

After all, she had to work for the prick.

So life was looking up. Except for Alvarez who had sunk into her usual Christmas funk. There was something going on with her, just like every other holiday season. She never returned home to Oregon for Christmas and this year she’d said she planned to work over the holiday and let the people with families have the time off. When invited to Pescoli’s she’d declined, claiming she wanted to spend her free time with Jane Doe, her newly adopted cat.

Pescoli had tried to ask her partner about her avoidance of all things to do with the yuletide, but Alvarez, as ever, managed to evade the questions or change the subject.

Christmas, as far as Alvarez was concerned, was a taboo topic.

Pescoli glanced out the window, noticed it was still snowing. At least, though, the storms had slowed and the workload at the department was back to a more normal level. As for Cameron Johnson, a sicko serial killer if there ever had been one, the FBI had stepped in and taken all of the files, notes, and computer information from Johnson’s secret room in the basement of his house and were working the case.

It seemed Cameron had been hell-bent on eradicating the female offspring of Donor 727 for years. In his notes, the deputies had found reference to forty-two women, some who lived as far away as New England.

DNA tests had proven the victims around this part of Montana as well as others, including Shelly Bonaventure in LA, had, indeed, been Gerald Johnson’s offspring. Other “accident” victims, the “Unknowings” named in Johnson’s notes who were already dead, were being examined. If there were any DNA samples taken before they were buried, they were being compared, or the bodies were now being exhumed. They would probably never know about the few who had been cremated as there was no DNA left behind to be tested.