Willing to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

So much for family togetherness.

Pescoli glanced at the baby, who, usually active at dinnertime, had passed out in his swing and was still rocking rhythmically to and fro, eyes closed, hair falling over his forehead.

“Well, that was delish. Thanks, Santana.” She motioned around the table for her kids to chime in, but it didn’t happen. Only the dogs appeared to appreciate what had been served as they’d each staked out a spot near the table in hopes that someone might drop a morsel.

She pushed her chair back and said, “Jeremy, you clear tonight and take out the garbage. Bianca, you’re on dish duty.”

No one argued, at least until Bianca opened the dishwasher and said something under her breath.

“What?” Pescoli asked, but could guess.

“It’s full.” She skewered her brother with a glare meant to cut through granite. “You were supposed to unload it.”

“Hey, I’m busy,” he argued, “and I don’t really live here.”

“You do too. The garage is like attached. And the stables need to be cleaned.”

“Who put you in charge?”

“She’s right,” Pescoli said, “but he’s right, too. The stable and barn and outside stuff is between Santana and Jer.”

Ivy said, “I can do it. Just tell me where to put things. It was my job, too, at home. . . .” Her voice had trailed off and she swallowed hard.

“Nah. It’s okay.” Jeremy placed an arm around her and she nestled her head into the hollow of his shoulder.

“Oh, brother.” Bianca turned on the water in the sink and reached for the sponge.

“You’ve got Tucker?” Pescoli asked her husband, and Santana lifted a hand in response, but he’d already gravitated to the family room and the TV, which, for some reason tonight, he found more fascinating than usual. “Don’t forget.”

“I won’t.” He didn’t bother glancing at Tuck, but Pescoli did and saw he was still sleeping in the swing. Rocking back and forth. Tick, tick, tick.

Good enough. Pescoli left, letting them sort it out while she ran to the store for essentials: diapers, formula, and a six-pack of Diet Coke, her newfound vice, or refound, as she’d spent years drinking the soda. She’d given it up because of the caffeine, but now, she could indulge. And as for all those studies saying it was bad for you? Tough. “Everything in moderation,” she told herself, eyeing the cigarette display at the check stand with a little tug. She’d given up smoking years before, but every now and then, especially when a case became difficult, she’d break down and smoke a filter tip from the emergency pack she kept in her glove box. She’d thrown out the few crumpled cigarettes left in her last pack when she’d found out she was pregnant, and though the urge caught up with her once in a while, she wasn’t about to go down that slippery slope again.

At least she hoped not.

As she drove home her cell phone chimed and she saw Paterno’s number on the screen. She clicked into the Bluetooth and listened as he brought her up to speed with the case. He wrapped up about the time she pulled into the drive. She grabbed the two bags of groceries and carried them into the house where she was met by the exhilaration and cacophony of the dogs. The rooms were dim, the only illumination in the family room provided by the fire and television. Jeremy and Ivy were on the couch, almost snuggling, a blanket over them, watching some old romantic comedy, a movie from the nineties with Hugh Grant flickering on the television.

Really?

She’d never known Jeremy to watch what he’d referred to as a “chick flick” since he was around twelve. Her radar clicked on. Hmm . . .

“Hey,” she said, setting the groceries on the counter.

Jeremy looked over his shoulder. “Get any Red Bull?”

“That’s on you,” Pescoli said.

Ivy just smiled, cuddled up as she was to Jeremy. Didn’t she have a boyfriend? A new guy in the picture? Hadn’t Troy Boxer said as much? So what was she doing with Jeremy?

Pescoli was getting a bad feeling about the dynamics between the two. Though Pescoli’s niece had been here a very short while, Jeremy, with his raging hormones and need to be a savior, seemed already smitten with his cousin. It was wrong on so ma

ny levels. Yes, undoubtedly Ivy needed emotional support and a shoulder to lean on, but Pescoli was damned sure Jeremy didn’t need to provide either. Or at least not to the extent to which he seemed committed.

Maybe the infatuation would pass.

She sure as hell hoped so.

Looking around, she noticed the baby, no longer in his swing, was already in his pajamas and seated in his little baby carrier.