Willing to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“I’m sorry,” Bianca said.

“Are you? Really?” She gave her cousin a hard look.

“I killed a guy, too. Someone I knew. When he . . . well, he was going to kill me.”

Ivy said, “Really? But you were here in Montana, right? Mommy was a cop and could help you out?”

“Yeah, I know, but I—”

“Just leave me alone.” Ivy’s face turned from sadness to a dark anger and her lips flattened over her teeth. “Okay?”

Bianca hesitated.

“Okay?” Ivy repeated, in a deep-throated whisper.

“Sure. Fine. It’s your life.”

“Exactly!”

Bianca lifted her palms, irked by Ivy’s mercurial moods. “I was just trying to be nice.”

“Then go be nice somewhere else. Maybe with your cop mom. Or your ultracool cowboy of a stepdad. I know you don’t get along with your real dad, but at least you’ve got a decent guy who seems to care about you.”

Bianca didn’t respond.

“Yeah. Thought so. Just leave me the fuck alone.”

Bianca did. Closing the door behind her, she started back to her bedroom, but Ivy, as much of a pain in the butt as she was, had a point. Bianca had been feeling sorry for herself, she was so pissed at her loser of a dad. But she did have Mom and Santana. She flopped onto her bed and pulled out her Kindle. She should start working on an essay that was due in English next week, but she couldn’t make herself. She though

t she heard Ivy crying softly again, but this time she put earbuds in her ears and listened to music as she opened up chapter eight of the latest Stephen King novel and got lost in a world of her own.

* * *

On her way home, there was little traffic, but the snow continued, tiny flakes dancing and twirling, forever falling in the glow of her headlights.

Pescoli called Victor Wilde and explained what was happening with his daughter.

He was less than thrilled.

“Oh, no,” was his response. “She murdered that man?”

“Self-defense. There are tapes of the attack proving her story.”

“Thank God.”

“Nonetheless, she needs you. Not just legally, but emotionally.”

“What do you want me to do from here?”

“I want you to get on the next plane to Missoula, rent a car, and come and get her at my house,” Pescoli said with forced patience.

“That’s not possible. I can’t just—”

“Yes, Victor. You can. You’re her father, and until other arrangements are made, her legal guardian.”

“No, no. I—I can’t leave my family and my job.”

“She’s your family, too.”