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Tucker was thriving, eating and sleeping and offering up baby smiles, but Bianca was a worry.
Bianca swore she would never forgive Luke despite his repeated attempts at trying to contact her. She didn’t want him put in jail, but she refused to deal with him. Though Bianca refused to press charges, the DA and Regan were putting together a case. A strong case. It was only a matter of time. As for Michelle? Who cared? She and Luke were probably divorcing even though her white-hot affair with Barclay Sphinx was rumored to have lost steam.
Pescoli just wished she would disappear.
It was her daughter who concerned her. Bianca had lost interest in school, this, her senior year of high school. Once driven, she now seemed lost. Fortunately, she’d agreed to see a psychologist, but her fun-loving, all-about-me spoiled teenager had disappeared, become a shell of herself, spent her time reading or online. Pescoli couldn’t remember the last time Bianca had gone out or even bothered putting on lipstick. Yeah, she was lost.
She needed a mother. Full-time. As did Tucker.
What to do?
Stay home. Be a full-time mother. At least for a while. Until Bianca finds herself. Until Tucker is old enough to enjoy preschool.
Her thoughts drifted back to the Good Feelings Preschool, when Bianca was a toddler. All those innocent babies, all now nearly grown, some now dead, others in prison, still others, like Bianca, forever scarred.
Was that what life was? A series of childhood scars that molded a person into adulthood?
The baby gurgled and opened his eyes to stare up at her with his dark Santana eyes. “You’re an angel,” she told him as she picked him up and walked him onto the deck. Autumn was in the air, the night crisp, the moon rising. This, living here, was a little slice of heaven. A perfect place to raise a family.
And yet . . . as she gazed across the water, watching the breeze ruffle the surface, she imagined that there was danger lurking in the shadows, a malevolent presence that threatened their peace.
You’re being paranoid.
Turning to go inside, she spied her husband walking into the bedroom. Her heart swelled at the sight of him. Yeah, he could still turn her inside out. She slipped through the French doors and walked into his embrace.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Never better.”
His smile was familiar, a crooked slash of white against dark skin that caused her heart to skip a beat. He kissed her, then, just a brush of his lips over hers, then did the same to the crown of his son’s head.
Yeah, life here was good. Secure. Regan Pescoli had never been happier, but when she turned back to the doors and cast one final glance to the darkness beyond, she felt a tiny chill, like an icy needle pricking the edge of her heart.
Tonight, she locked the door.
