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A dry breeze scuttled leaves and bark dust across the porch and plucked at Pescoli’s hair. Clearing her throat, Darlie reached into the pocket of her sweater, pulled out a Kleenex, and dabbed at the corner of her eyes. “We called Malcolm. He’s on his way back here from Boise now, should be here any minute. We hoped he’d heard something more, but he didn’t.”
“Got the same text as the rest of us.” Roy scowled darkly. “It’s like it went out to every damned person on her contact list on her phone. You know what I think, Detective?”
“What?”
“I think that whoever took her sent out that group text so everybody would back off. He knows we’re lookin’ for her, that we won’t stop ’til we find her and he’s pan-ickin’. Tryin’ to throw us off. Tryin’ to make us think she’s fine, maybe angry . . . alive and fine.”
Pescoli nodded; she’d had the same idea. “It’s an angle we’re exploring.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about angles and exploring or anything else. I just want my girl back.” He was angry, his lips pursed, but his chin wobbled a little, giving away his fear. His wife tried to say something, but the effort was too great and she ended up just sighing and squeezing out more tears.
“It’s what we want, too, Roy,” Pescoli said. “And we’re putting all of our resources into finding her.”
“You’d better, by golly.”
With that, she left feeling worse than she had before. She’d hoped Lindsay’s parents would have heard more from her, but like Roy, she was very suspicious that the text had come from Lindsay’s abductor . . . or her killer....
Nope. She wouldn’t think that way. Not yet. But as she climbed behind the wheel of her Jeep, adjusting the seat back a little farther to accommodate her ever-widening girth, she couldn’t help but imagine Lindsay Cronin’s face superimposed on the corpse of Destiny Rose Montclaire.
Would they find Lindsay, strangled, her body submerged in one of the dozens of mountain streams near Grizzly Falls?
“Damn it all to hell,” she muttered, starting the car and easing into traffic. After receiving the text, Bianca had checked with all of her friends and sure enough, they’d received copies of the message: I’m not coming back, but nothing more. Like Lindsay’s parents, several had tried to reach out to the girl, by texting or calling or using social media, but there had been no response, at least none that Pescoli knew of.
So why send the text?
To make people believe Lindsay was alive and letting everyone know she was leaving for good? That didn’t make any sense. But then, nothing did.
On her way to the vigil, she called Alvarez at the station. So far, Lindsay’s car hadn’t been located, nor had she used her debit card on her bank account, and the only activity on her phone was the one very recent text.
She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. This case disturbed her at an emotional level, the kids involved being in Bianca’s circle of friends. Was that it? Were they being targeted because they knew something?
Frowning, she drove to a stop sign and waited for a thirty-something woman pushing a stroller. Backed by the lowering sun, her profile in silhouette, the mother was distracted, phone in the hand as she pushed the stroller, her concentration on the screen.
Pescoli squinted, was reminded of her own kids as little ones, thought about the baby about to be born and the coming years, first smiles, giggles, tentative steps, running and swimming, heading off to preschool before she knew it. Just like Jeremy and Bianca . . .
The baby kicked and she was reminded that the birth was imminent, happening soon. In the next week she’d be going on maternity leave. But could she? While these cases weren’t solved? “You’ll have to wait,” she told her unborn child as she drove toward the church. She was rewarded with more little kicks.
Another tough little kid, she thought, as willful as her first two. She’d silently blamed Jeremy and Bianca’s fathers for all their stubborn, headstrong traits, but now, if baby number three proved as mulish as her other two, she might have to take another hard look at herself.
* * *
For some reason, everyone seemed to think that Bianca would know what had happened to Lindsay. Just because her mom was a cop and investigating the case didn’t mean she was privy to any new information, yet her friends had all seemed to elevate her to the position of Information Central, even though she knew nothing.
“Come on,” Maddie had wheedled in a phone call while Bianca was sorting through her closet, wondering what was appropriate to wear to a vigil. “You must know something. Your mom’s all over this.”
“Even if she did know something, she wouldn’t tell me.” Maddie had argued some more, but Bianca had finally hung up and, after a fruitless search for something perfect, closed the closet door, figuring jeans, a black top, and zero jewelry would be good enough.
Then Lara had texted: Where the hell is she? You think maybe this is one of her high drama stunts to gain attention? It would be just like her! Tell your mom not to be fooled!
While she was zipping up a pair of boots, Rod Devlin private messaged her: I’m worried about Linds. What if something happened to her? What’s your mom say?
And on and on. Making her more nervous than she was before, and that was pretty nervous. She still had the uncanny sensation that she was being watched. Wherever she went, she had this feeling that someone was observing her and waiting. For what? She couldn’t guess. Nor did she know who it was or even if he existed. Maybe she was making it all up, her mind going a little crazy after finding Destiny’s body. She probably should see a shrink.
Or maybe everyone else should just leave her alone. All of her acquaintances, from Austin Reece to Bryant Tophman and Simone Delaney, were all over her. Bianca was beginning to think the whole group was a bunch of morons. Even Seneca Martinez, who had been her friend since before they’d started school, left her a text: I’m really worried about Linds. In fact, I’m weirded out by everything that’s going on. Your mom will catch whoever did this, tho’. Right? And soon?
/> Bianca sure as hell hoped so. She touched up her lip gloss, decided her messy bun was good enough, and headed downstairs in her ungainly brace. She didn’t like the pressure and she hated the dreams that haunted her sleep. Nagging nightmares where the players changed. Sometimes she was with kids from school, other times she was in a group of the Big Foot Believers, and once she was even at the old preschool, Good Feelings. But the kids weren’t toddlers any longer. They were teenagers who smoked and drank and swore and had sex while the preschool teacher, Miss Love, freaked out and tried to put them all in time-outs, where they continued their bad behavior.
She’d woken up from that one with a headache. The dream had receded, but it had left her with a vivid image of making out with Austin Reece, which totally grossed her out. In the dream, she’d really been into the make-out session, turned on to the point of considering sex with him.
