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That much was true. If it hadn’t been for Jeremy taking aim at Grayson’s killer during an attack, she wouldn’t be alive.
“Give Blackwater a chance,” Jeremy suggested, opening the refrigerator door and hanging on it again, as if somehow the contents within had changed in the last five minutes. “I think he’s a good guy.”
“We’ll see.” She wasn’t convinced.
He discovered a previously overlooked slab of pie that had to be a week old and pulled it from the depths. “Since we can’t have Grayson back,” he said soberly.
She nodded, swallowed, then checked her watch. “So where’s your sister?”
“At Lana’s. Studying,” he added dryly.
“Ahh. Well, you know, they could be.”
He grabbed a fork that had been left near the sink, then carried the pie into the living room and plopped onto the worn couch. “They could be,” he allowed. Both dogs, hoping he might drop a bit of food, followed at a brisk trot and positioned themselves at his feet, their ears cocked, their eyes beseeching.
“You know something I should?” Pescoli asked, following him into the living room.
“Just a gut feeling. Kinda like your cop instinct.”
“Does she need a ride?”
“What she needs is a car.”
“So she tells me. Every day.” She found her cell phone to text her daughter.
“Lucky says she can have one. He’ll buy it for her.”
“And the insurance? And the gas?” Pescoli hated the fact that her ex could offer up extravagant gifts with no strings attached and, when they didn’t work out, leave her to pick up the pieces and deal with the fallout.
“That, you’ll have to talk to him about.”
When hell freezes over, she thought darkly, relieved to feel something other than grief, if even for a moment, as she texted Bianca. Briefly, she considered having a beer, then immediately banished the thought. A “cold one” after work, one of life’s pleasures, was out the window for around seven or eight more months.
“Have the dogs been fed?” she asked.
“Do they look like they’ve eaten?” Taking a huge bite of chocolate and whipped cream, he found the television’s remote and switched stations.
“Hey, guys!” She found the opened bag of dog food in the pantry, scooped kibblets into two metal bowls and turned to find both animals waiting expectantly. “Hungry?”
Cisco spun in tight little circles while Sturgis swept the floor with his tail.
“Here ya go.” As she fed the dogs, she received an incoming text from Bianca saying she had a ride and would be home within the hour.
Good. In time for dinner, whatever the hell that was going to be. Spaghetti out of ajar? Tuna casserole or cheese sandwiches and tomato soup from a can? Something Bianca would eat. She was beyond finicky and Pescoli was keeping an eye on her because she was obsessed with her weight, her body, and wearing the tiny bikini her stepmother had bought her for Christmas. At her stepmother’s encouragement, Bianca was talking about becoming a model, so there were all kinds of comments about nutrition and exercise, carbs and fat, calories and workouts falling from her daughter’s lips. Eating healthy would be great, but the operative word was eating, not starving. Working out, again, a great idea, but not to the point of passing out. Pescoli wished Michelle, a smart enough woman who was fixated by her own looks, would just leave her daughter alone and quit putting weird ideas into her head. As a teenager, Bianca already had enough of those.
So what could she whip up in the kitchen that her daughter would find palatable? Nothing she’d already considered and, anyway, the thought of cooking made her already queasy stomach turn over. Maybe takeout, she thought, opening the drawer where they kept pencils, note pads, out-of-date telephone books, and menus for their favorite restaurants in Grizzly Falls. She’d just pulled out the menu for Wild Will’s when her cell phone bleeped and she saw Santana’s name and picture on the screen.
“Hey,” she greeted him.
“I just heard about the sheriff.” Santana’s voice was grim.
“Yeah. Not good.”
“You okay?” he asked.
“Not great,” she admitted. “But I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?”
