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She made a face. “Yeah. And we know you and Santana. . . well, but did you have to go and get pregnant when you’re, like, almost ready for retirement?”
“Retirement. Geez, Bianca, I’m not in the grave yet.” Another pain was starting to swell inside her.
“Well, if it’s weird for me, it’s got to be super freaky for Emmett because he was going with Marjory when she hooked up with his dad.”
“What?” Pescoli said, trying not to wince as the pain increased. “Emmett dated Marjory? They were a couple?”
“Yeah, for like three or four months, and then she went for the dad or he went for her. He was still married to Terri at the time. They got divorced and then Richtor and Marjory got married and now she’s knocked up.”
Husband shooting blanks . . .
Oh, God.
No. No reason to follow that line of thinking. Terri Tufts was a bitter ex, and bitter exes said a lot of bitter, untrue things.
But she did ask, “Is Mr. Tufts excited about the baby?” The pressure decreased slightly and she took a breath. I cannot be going into labor. I. Can. Not.
“I don’t know.”
Pescoli’s cell phone chirped and she saw that Luke was on the line. Great. The last thing she needed was to deal with her ex, but ignoring Luke never seemed to work.
“Hi,” she answered shortly.
“Have you heard?” he demanded, and she could tell that he was driving, could hear the rush of traffic noise in the background. And he was mad as hell; she recognized his fury in the timbre of his voice.
“Have I heard what?”
“About the show?” He was practically shouting. “That Bianca’s out and that bimbo Lara Haas is in? That she claims she was attacked by a Big Foot? Jesus Christ, that has to be a setup!”
“A setup?”
“Are you playing dumb? Lara’s attack was obviously staged. Fake!” Then, he must’ve turned his head away from the phone as his voice was suddenly muted, though she heard him yell, “Way to go, asshole. Cut me off, will ya?” Then his voice was stronger again, when he returned. “I’m driving.”
“I figured.”
Back on topic, his voice clear again, he said, “I don’t believe for a second that she lost her phone up there at Reservoir Point when they were filming and then she didn’t notice it for a couple of hours or so, long enough for the crew to shut down? No way. I’m telling you, that girl has been angling for a starring role in Big Foot Territory: Montana! from the get-go. She was targeting Bianca, trying to figure out how to become the star, and she did it.” Again, his voice became muted, but she still heard, “Holy shit, asshole! Get off the road! That part belongs to Bianca! Hold on a sec. I’ve got to turn. Oh, shit!” She heard what sounded like the phone being dropped.
She wondered where he was heading in such a state, and a cold certainty settled in the pit of her stomach.
“That was Dad?” Bianca asked, twisting on the couch to look at her.
“Yeah, but I lost him. . . .” Her voice trailed off when headlights flashed through the trees as a vehicle came speeding down the lane. Lucky’s vintage Chevy was kicking up a trail of dust. “Oh, wait.” she said, clicking off the phone. “I think I just found him.”
Oh, joy.
* * *
“Gotcha!” Alvarez muttered, double-checking the lab results. No doubt about it. Kywin Bell was the father of Destiny Rose Montclaire’s unborn child. “You snakey, little lying bastard,” she said as she grabbed her keys and sidearm from her locker, then headed into the warm Montana night.
Destiny Rose’s self-appointed “protector,” and one of the people Destiny had texted on the night she died, had been lying to everyone. All that complaining about being harassed by the police, and whining about wanting a lawyer was to cover his own lying ass.
“Too late,” she said as she climbed into the warm interior of her Outback, rolled down the windows, backed out of her parking space, and drove out of the lot. The sun was hanging low in the sky, just about to settle over the western ridge of mountains, dusk quickly approaching. Squinting, she pulled her sunglasses from the console, slipped them over her eyes, and, at the traffic light, dialed Pescoli.
Her partner didn’t pick up, so she left a quick voice mail about arresting Kywin Bell, then kept driving. It was finally all coming together. Kywin had been seeing Destiny behind Donny Justison’s back, or maybe even to his knowledge as Donny and Destiny had broken up because of Veronica Palmero. Or for whatever reason. And oops, Destiny gets pregnant. Maybe she didn’t even know which of the boys she’d slept with could be the father. Not important. So she’d contacted them both, along with Lindsay Cronin, and then met Donny . . . at his house. “Nuh-uh,” she said to herself as she wound her way through the city streets to Franklin Bell’s house. Destiny had gone to the reservoir. So had she met Donny there? Or Kywin? Or both? Had Donny killed her in a fit of rage? Or had Kywin, “her protector” and lover, strangled the life out of the mother of his child?
Alvarez decided to force the truth out of Kywin first. Because he was the only person who had been contacted by both Lindsay Cronin and Destiny Rose Montclaire, the two dead girls. Alvarez had double-checked the phone records, and though Lindsay had conversations with a lot of her classmates, Kywin Bell’s number was one of the most frequent. Sometimes their conversations lasted half an hour. Yeah, he knew something, and Alvarez was betting he knew a lot.
“Time to find out,” she said, cutting the engine, making sure her sidearm was ready, and tossing off her shades. A feeling of satisfaction stole over her as she strode up the cracked cement walkway to the front porch, where the scraggly gray cat was curled into one of the metal lawn chairs. At the sight of her, it climbed to its feet, took the time to hiss in her direction, then hopped to the
