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The baby! Tucker! For a brief second, she’d been on automatic, had forgotten. She felt a jab of remorse and glanced over at him sleeping so peacefully, unaware of all the dangers in the world, the horrors, the people who would kill innocent girls. “Right. He’ll . . . he’ll come with me . . .” But as she woke up and her mind cleared, she knew that was impossible.
“Stay, Regan,” he said, his face serious. “I’ll find her.”
“How?”
A nurse hurried into the room. “Is there something I can help with? Mrs. Santana?” She was frowning, sensing trouble.
“No,” she said, fear settling deep in her soul. Bianca is all right. Don’t go off the deep end. Just because other girls . . . oh, dear God. She’s probably with a friend.
“I’ll start calling. Get Alvarez on it and . . .”
With the nurse still unsure about the situation, standing near the bassinet, Pescoli snagged her phone from the table near her bed and saw movement in the doorway. Her heart did a complete nosedive when she recognized her ex-husband, his face drawn, his eyes red from drink or tears or both. “Luke?” she said, knowing in an instant that the worst had happened. “What—?”
“Forgive me,” he whispered, his voice rough.
“For . . . ?” Her heart clutched. Oh, God. “Tell me this doesn’t have anything to do with Bianca?” Her voice cracked and she felt as if the earth were shifting on its axis, spiraling to a dark place in space where only evil dwelled.
“It’s my fault. It was my idea.”
“What?” she nearly screamed, wanting to know, but dreading the worst.
“I set her up. To be kidnapped.”
“What? Kidnapped?” She felt as if the world had collapsed. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Mrs. Santana,” the nurse warned, but Luke was talking again.
“It . . . it was to get Barclay Sphinx’s attention, to make him want to . . .” His voice faded, his fists balled in frustration. “I was wasted, pissed, upset about . . . a lot of things but I wanted, thought this was her chance—Bianca’s—to be something, get a start in Hollywood. So I set it up.”
“You bastard! You stupid, idiotic bastard! Girls are dying!” She launched herself then, flying off the bed, landing on the floor in her bare feet, ready to tear him limb from limb. How could he do this? How could he put her daughter, his daughter, dammit, their daughter at such a risk? “Who? Who has her?” she screamed, taking her first punch as Santana wrapped an arm around her middle and hauled her off her feet.
“Whoa, honey.” Santana held her tight. “Slow down.”
“I will not! Did you hear what he said? What he did?” Over her husband’s shoulder, she yelled, “Who the hell has my daughter and where is she, Luke?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know.”
“Who did you contact?”
“Bryant Tophman.”
“Tophman? Why?”
The nurse interjected, “I’m calling security.”
“The hell you are,” Regan said, “I’m a cop. We are security.”
“Not here,” she said and hurried out as Luke glanced out the window to the morning. His whole face fell. “I knew he’d do it. That Tophman would come through. He . . . sometimes I get weed from him.”
“You buy drugs from a kid?” she said, incredulous. “Holy crap and then you, what? Come up with some harebrained scheme to fake kidnap her? Are you insane?”
“No one was supposed to get hurt.”
“Was?” she cried, coming unglued. “What do you mean? Is Bianca hurt? For the love of God—”
“No! No! Of course not. I wouldn’t put her in danger.”
“The hell you didn’t.”
