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She paced across the “nursery” where he was lying in the bed she’d purchased, staring up at her with big teary eyes.
Somehow, this wasn’t going as she’d planned.
Oh, she was certain that Pescoli was suffering at the loss of her child, but really, was it fair that she had to suffer, too? She shot the crying kid another look, then tried again with the little stuffed bunny she’d bought, touching his cheek with the fake rabbit’s nose, letting one lopped ear trace across his cheek, but the kid was having none of it. He was flailing his little arms and crying and hiccuping and . . . it was too much.
“Sleep it off,” she told him, and crossed to the other room, slamming the door behind her, trying to mute out his screams. What was wrong with him anyway?
Could he really tell that his mother wasn’t around?
Well, too effin’ bad. “Get used to it,” she yelled through the closed door, then donned earbuds and plugged them into her iPhone, cranking up the music, a Beyoncé song she liked, until she could hear nothing but the music pounding through her brain.
That was better.
Now that she could think again, she felt more than a slight bit of satisfaction that Pescoli was probably as freaked out as she’d ever been.
And that, despite hanging on to the shrieking brat, was worth it.
Well, until he wasn’t.
She thought of the lonely little gravestone on the hillside overlooking San Francisco Bay, where her own son lay deep in the ground, and her heart twisted. If only she’d had the chance to raise him.
This one is yours, now. It doesn’t matter that he was born to the cop and her husband—he’s an infant, you could raise him, have the life you dreamed of. Hurting him to hurt her would be wrong. She’s going to be in pain anyway. Remember how you felt when you didn’t know where your own infant boy was? The questions that plagued you, the blackness that took hold of your soul? The abject loneliness and despair you experienced every waking hour.
That’s what she feels.
And it will come to her tenfold because she knows he was taken from her on her watch. Aside from desperation, Pescoli will feel deep, soul-numbing guilt. And really, what could be better?
Tit for fuckin’tat.
Besides you really don’t want to kill a baby. No, no, no. Shooting Boxer and Stillwell, that was a necessity. They would have turned on you. And being the orchestrator of Brindel and Paul Latham’s death, that was all part of the plan. To start the ball rolling. A little shock wave to put Regan Pescoli on alert.
She knows now that the person who stole her child is capable of murder, so her pain has doubled and tripled and more. With each second, her excruciation increases, like a blade twisting deeper and deeper.
So enjoy it.
The baby will calm down.
He will be yours.
And Regan Pescoli will grow old with the pain and guilt of never knowing what happened to her child.
Perfect.
Chapter 29
Pescoli thought and hoped, even prayed, that a ransom call would come through. The police had set up the call center, the FBI was on their way, and Pescoli waited, staring at her home phone, keeping her cell charged at her side, checking the mail when it came, hoping for some sign that whoever had taken Tucker would return him. She and Santana weren’t rich people, but they could scrape together some money, borrow if they had to, do whatever it took as long as they got their child back.
It didn’t happen.
Until nearly three PM.
When she saw a car approach and a man get out. He was bundled in a long coat, scarf, and cap pulled down low over his eyes.
“Let me get this,” Alvarez warned when the doorbell rang, but Pescoli was already hurrying to the foyer, her heart pounding in expectation, Santana just a step behind her.
“Pescoli! Stop!” Alvarez tried to intervene, but as the doorbell chimed, and the dogs got wind of a visitor, Pescoli reached the door and flung it open, all three dogs bursting onto the porch.
“Hey! Call them off!” Victor Wilde recoiled, hands over his head, as he eyed the pups as if they were a pack of rabid wolves.
