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And like it or not, she was going to unlock the rest of the mystery that was this case.
* * *
Pescoli felt like a zombie.
Once she and her family were alone in the house, she walked through the rooms, distraught, ending up in Tucker’s nursery, staring at his empty crib. She held his blanket in her hands, twisting it, lifting it to her face so she could drink in the lingering baby scent of him, and fought like hell to keep from crying.
Sarina had called and wanted to take the first flight back to Missoula, but Regan had asked her to stay in San Francisco, and when that hadn’t worked, Regan had put Santana on the line. He’d been calm and firm.
“. . . we’re doing okay, Sarina. No, it’s not great, far from it, but we’ll let you know when we locate Tucker.... What? . . . Yes, that’s right. The bodies were identified. Boxer and Stillwell . . . yeah, I know. But Ivy will be fine.... Victor’s here for another interview with the sheriff’s department. What . . . yeah, but that’s the way it is. He is her father.... No, Elana didn’t come. Well, at least she didn’t come to the house and he didn’t say so . . . probably stayed with her daughters.. . . Of course, and thank you, we’ll let you know, but we’ll be fine.” With that lie he’d hung up. They wouldn’t be fine.
Not until Tucker was home.
Collette, too, had made a requisite sisterly call of concern, but the conversation was short. “I’m here for you, if you need me. I can hop a plane in a heartbeat. Just let me know what’s happening.”
Now, Pescoli went into the bathroom, still clutching the blanket, counting how many hours it had been since he’d been stolen. “Why?” she whispered, and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She looked gaunt. Drained. And though someone—Alvarez?—had suggested she talk to a doctor about a prescription for antidepressants or something, she’d refused.
She needed to feel the pain.
She needed to sense this raw scraping of her soul.
She needed to experience the anguish of guilt that ripped through her.
She was supposed to be resting. She’d told Santana that she needed time alone, to pull herself together, maybe get some sleep, but of course that had proved impossible. Her thoughts were swirling, her worries immense, sleep elusive.
Her phone jangled and she jumped, heart leaping to her throat. She almost called for Santana, who was downstairs, when she saw the number: Chilcoate.
“Hello?” she said, her heart beating a thousand times a minute, her hands shaking. Did he have something for her, something that would lead her to her missing child?
“You didn’t call me.”
“Oh, Jesus. I forgot.” She wanted to pour her heart out to him, but bit her tongue, anxious for whatever information he’d discovered, knowing instinctively that he, the loner and hermit that he was, wouldn’t understand. “What did you find out?”
“There’s a phone number that was called weeks ago, then suddenly stopped. To Boxer. Lots of calls up until the end of November, then nothing.”
About the same time that Troy Boxer and Ivy Wilde broke up.
“Yes?” she said.
“It belongs to a woman named Lorna Percival.”
The name didn’t ring any bells. Pescoli’s heart nosedived. “Lorna Percival?” she repeated.
“I can’t find much on her. It’s kind of like she just suddenly appeared on the radar about six or seven months ago. She lives in San Francisco supposedly, but the address I checked shows a strip mall. Probably one of those mailboxes with a suite number attached, no physical address, and her credit card statements go there.”
“But she has statements.”
“Uh-huh. Probably got the cards with fake ID and recently, get this, she’s been in Montana. Not many charges but a couple at a mini-mart. Corky’s Gas and Go.”
Pescoli’s knees went weak. The station where Jeremy worked? The woman who abducted Tucker was brazen enough to frequent the small store and gas station where Jeremy spent over twenty hours a week?
Her blood began to pulse in her head.
The woman, this Lorna Percival, was taunting her. Playing with fire on purpose. She thought of all the times she’d felt eyes upon her and knew that horrible woman had been watching the house, plotting her malevolence. And the boldness of using a ladder and forcing open a window when Pescoli and her husband were in a room down the hall, a daredevil flaunting her skills, rubbing it into Pescoli’s nose.
She dropped the blanket.
Stared at the woman in the mirror, the broken down mother with the phone pressed desperately to her ear.
