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Padgett Long has my son.
Her alias is Lorna Percival.
Heading to the Long Ranch.
Requesting backup.
* * *
Pescoli parked at the edge of the compound, next to Santana’s truck.
The house seemed quiet as she approached and she kept a hand in her pocket on her pistol, ready to use it if she had to. Her blood was pumping, adrenaline rushing through her veins at the thought of finding Padgett with her child.
If she would just hand Tucker over . . .
The door to the house opened and she froze, bringing her firearm up.
“Whoa, Pescoli, don’t shoot me,” Santana said. “Trying to make yourself a widow?”
She didn’t find his attempt at humor the least bit funny. “Why are you here?” she asked, suddenly wondering.
“The other day when Bianca and I were riding, I thought there was someone inside, but there wasn’t. And then the baby missing . . . I just thought I’d double-check.”
“And?”
He shook his head.
“But Padgett’s involved.”
“Who? Padgett?”
“Don’t ask me how, but I know that Padgett Long has been in town. I suspect she is connected to Ivy somehow and she has an alias. Lorna Percival. And I think she took our son!”
His dark pallor turned a few shades whiter.
“I’ll fill you in later. Now let’s go back through this house. I have to see for myself. I’ve had this feeling lately that our house was being watched . . . by some malevolent presence, that something evil was out there and it was coming from this direction. Humor me, please,” she pleaded, even though Santana was just intently listening. “Then our baby was taken and I learned Padgett Long was back.”
“Okay.” Santana was short. “And there is a trail of dead bodies from here to San Francisco.”
She nodded jerkily and Santana let them inside where it was warmer and still as death. The place, despite being furnished, felt empty. Abandoned. Brady Long’s couches and chairs, desks, tables, and lamps were clean and polished, the carpets vacuumed, the counters clean, no dust collecting, but the house still felt unused.
They walked softly from one room to the next, listening and searching. Pescoli’s gaze swept every nook and cranny and she kept her hand on her pistol. Was she wrong? The living area and den, kitchen and laundry room, all empty. The bedrooms, too, looked as if they hadn’t been slept in, though the beds had been made and towels hung in the adjoining bathrooms.
Even when they snapped on the lights, Pescoli felt nervous about being in the home, as if she were stepping on someone’s grave.
Not that she cared.
All that mattered was finding her son, and as she walked through each empty, unused room, she felt her hopes die a little. If Tucker were here, wouldn’t she hear him, sense that he was near?
Please, please, please, she thought, straining to hear any sound out of the ordinary, hoping to catch a glimpse of something, anything that would indicate he was nearby. But all she smelled was the slight scent of pine cleaner and she saw nothing that would suggest a baby had been in the house. No diapers or missing socks or forgotten pacifier lying in a corner.
Finally they were back in the kitchen, standing near the island, and she looked outside to watch the snow falling in fat flakes.
“He has to be here.”
“I’ve looked in the outbuildings, too,” he said, raking a hand through his hair, and she saw that he’d aged in the past few days. The lines around his eyes and mouth seemed deeper, the few strands of gray in his hair seeming to have doubled overnight.
He snapped out the lights and, as Pescoli took a step toward the door, she heard a squeak.
