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“She’s a girl.”
“There are women killers,” he argued, “but I don’t think she’s a serial killer.” He stopped and placed a hand at the crook of her elbow so that she would face him. “I do think she’s involved, though, directly or indirectly, and you do, too. Also, I know she’s killed once.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ah. You don’t know yet.”
She braced herself.
“Wynn Ellis died a few hours ago. Massive heart attack, probably brought on by the trauma he went through when she set him on fire.”
“Oh.” Pescoli felt as if she’d been kicked. “That was self-defense.”
“The camera footage showed the struggle and he definitely was the aggressor, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be an investigation. You know how that goes.”
She did. Not only as a cop but as the mother of a daughter who had taken another’s life in a deadly struggle.
“So bring her in tomorrow, with a lawyer, and she’s going to need someone as a guardian, so you’d better call her father. He needs to be with her.” In the darkness she saw Blackwater’s stern face. “Whether he likes it or not, he needs to be responsible for his kid. He needs to support her, no matter what she has or hasn’t done.”
With that he stalked toward his rig and held up a hand, warding off questions as both Manny Douglas and Talli trailed after him, and another television van rolled onto the spur. Pescoli didn’t waste any more time. She slogged through the snow to her Jeep and slid into the now-cool interior.
Within seconds, she’d switched on the ignition, cranked up the heater, and set the wipers in motion. A quick U-turn and she was driving home, snowflakes dancing in the beams of her headlights, the old logging road covered in white, tracks of the vehicles disappearing in the soft, ever-falling snow.
The clock showed that it was after ten, an hour earlier in Northern California where the Wildes would probably be settled in for the night. Pescoli was going to interrupt Victor Wilde’s life with his second family.
Too bad, because, damn it, once again Blackwater was right.
Victor Wilde needed to come to Montana to collect his kid.
And to support her. She was his flesh and blood. His daughter.
It was time for Ivy’s daddy to step the hell up.
* * *
After stepping out of the shower, Bianca wound a towel around her wet hair and wondered if she should change the color again. Throughout high school she’d dyed her hair, everything from blond to black to a cool shade of magenta. But she was over it now and discarded the idea nearly as soon as the notion popped into her head. In less than nine months, she’d be in college. Hopefully somewhere far away. Somewhere warm. Like Southern California or Arizona, anywhere but here.
She glanced out the bathroom window, saw in the exterior lights that it was still snowing, and sighed. Usually she liked the winters, but now . . . she needed to get away from her crazy family, especially her father. However, she had to admit that it was ironic that she was thinking of LA and sun and palm trees in an effort to put distance between herself and her father as his current wife was the one who had put the idea into her head. Michelle, the epitome of the blond beach beauty, had insisted Bianca would love it in Malibu or San Diego or Santa Monica, anywhere she could be near the ocean. Now Michelle and Lucky were splitting up.
For the briefest of seconds she felt sorry for her dad. Not only was he losing his wife but his daughter as well. But she tamped that thought down. Luke Pescoli would land on his feet. He always did. And he only really cared about “Numero Uno” as he would sometimes call himself.
She let the towel fall, sprayed detangler into her massive curls, and carefully combed out her still wet hair.
Then she slipped down the hall and, after checking to see that the baby was sleeping in his crib, saw that Ivy’s door was ajar. Just a crack.
Was she crying?
Bianca inched a little closer and heard the muffled sobs.
She grimaced, wondering what to do.
Drawing a breath, she tapped lightly on the girl’s door. “Ivy?” she whispered, pushing against the panels to find her cousin wrapped in the covers and blinking back tears. “Are you okay?”
Ivy sniffed, blinking, swiping a finger under her eyes to catch the running mascara. “Fine,” she said, when they both knew it was a lie.
“But . . .”
“Yeah, but.” She cleared her throat. “But my mom is dead. My dad’s a total jerk and everyone is trying to get me to go back to San Francisco to live with Dad and Elana . . . or Aunt Sarina. Worse yet! And . . . and I just found out that the douche bag who jumped me and tried to rape and rob me in New Mexico died. I saw it on the Internet. So . . . yeah . . . but maybe I’m not so fine.”
