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Ivy bit her lip and muttered, “I don’t know.”
“Let’s take this a step back. Did you see anyone in or around your mom’s house?”
“No, just heard them.” Chewing on her lip, she thought. “I mean, I thought I heard them.”
“More than one person?”
“I don’t know,” Ivy said again, and her eyebrows slid together as she concentrated.
There was something about her that made Pescoli question the veracity of her tale. Not that she was lying. . . more that it felt there was a lot left unsaid. Was she involved somehow? Lying? Covering her tracks? Were there two perpetrators? Her thoughts went to Paul’s sons, the two people who would gain the most from their father’s and stepmother’s death. Collette hadn’t trusted Paul’s sons, nor had Sarina, not really. Was it possible? For Seth and Macon to have simultaneously pulled triggers on their father and stepmother? Her stomach soured at the image that played through her mind—Paul’s disbelief, though he may not have seen who had put a bullet through the back of his head; but Brindel’s eyes had been wide open, rounding with fear as she recognized her assailant.
Was it possible?
Of course.
Anything was.
She eyed her niece.
Ivy had closed her eyes, as if she were replaying the scene of her escape from the house in her head. “I was downstairs,” she said. “And I heard footsteps . . . on the floor above, and it sounded . . . I mean, I think it was more than one set. It sounded as if there were at least two people, maybe more. But . . . I’m not sure. All I know is that I ran through the park to the waterfront.”
“You didn’t call anyone?”
“No.”
“Why not? Your father—”
“Victor’s not an option. I don’t get along with him or his wife. Not even what happened to Mom changes that.”
“But—”
“He’s not there for me!”
Pescoli nodded. She’d never liked Victor Wilde, not when he was married to Brindel, not after the divorce. He’d been pissed that his ex had taken up with a rich doctor whereas he’d always struggled. But she didn’t think he was a killer, not by any stretch of the imagination. Not for revenge for Latham being married to his wife and not even for being in control of the inheritance Ivy might have received.
Still, one never knew.
“You could have called your Aunt Sarina. She lives in the city—”
“I was freaked! Beyond freaked, for God’s sake! Someone killed my mom and stepdad! Murdered them in their beds . . . oh, Jesus.” She looked away, blinked. “I thought whoever did it might be following me, planning to kill me, too. I still do.”
“You could have called nine-one-one.”
“Yeah! I could have, but I didn’t!” She stood quickly and a few drops of cocoa sloshed onto the area rug. “Oh, shit! Shit, shit, shit!”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. Nothing is okay and nothing ever will be again!” She set her cup on the table, wrapped her arms around her middle, stalked to the fire.
“Do you have any idea who could have done this?”
“No!” She said it so sharply, so quickly, Nikita lifted his head and gave a soft husky bark. “Of course not.”
“No enemies?”
“Probably tons! Paul’s a dick!” Then she rolled her suddenly wet eyes toward the ceiling. “I guess I shouldn’t say that about him now. But he was. A real dick. Cheated on Mom all the time, bossed her around. She was getting a divorce, you know, and I was glad. He was just awful.”
“So who were his enemies?”
