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She’d been warming the back of her legs, but now she crossed the room toward the couch again. “I’ve asked myself like a million times, but I just don’t know. I was scared, so I ran, but Mom . . . oh, God.” Her voice caught and trembled and she sank into the cushions at the opposite end from where Pescoli had perched. She admitted, “I don’t like cops.”
Pescoli had run into that attitude before. Even with her own kids. The distrust of the police. Or the school administration. Anyone in authority. But especially the cops.
“Mom told me if I ever got into trouble and for some reason I couldn’t reach her, I was to call you.”
“You didn’t call.”
“I was afraid! And it’s not like I keep your number on my phone’s contact list.” More belligerence. “I. Just. Ran.”
Maybe a natural reaction. Maybe not. Pescoli wanted to believe her but experience had taught her to tread carefully, especially with family members. It was too easy for people close to her to try and pull the wool over her eyes.
Her jaw set, Ivy stared at the fire, watching the flames. Then as if seeing something disturbing in the embers, she turned away and focused her gaze on the three dogs, all curled on their beds and sleeping near a stack of firewood on the hearth. She looked haggard and rung out, pale, bruised, and haunted.
As if she’d been through hell.
She probably had.
Pescoli said, “It took you quite a while to get here.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a long way.”
“A long way, and then you hitchhiked in a snowstorm,” Santana reminded. He was still as tuned in to Ivy’s recap as Pescoli was. “Lucky you found someone so willing to help you.”
Ivy lifted her chin, giving him a long look. “Yeah, it was.”
“If you’d called, I would have come and gotten you,” Pescoli said quickly. Santana practically radiated skepticism. Clearly he was having some trouble with Ivy’s story as well.
“Call where? I didn’t have your number and I wasn’t going to phone the police station!” she declared, wild eyed.
“Why not?” Pescoli asked.
“I don’t know! They could be in on it, for all I know. Or, or, think I was! I wanted to talk to you. To family!”
“I wouldn’t have let anyone arrest you. The San Francisco Police working your case are completely trustworthy. And you need to talk to them.”
“Can’t I just give you a statement?”
“I’m not on the case. But I’ll be with you,” Pescoli assured her. “They just want to find who killed your mother.”
“Oh, I do too. That’s what I want.”
Did she say that a little fast?
Or, are you letting your suspicious mind run wild?
“What about this?” Pescoli asked, reaching across the pillow separating them to touch her niece’s forehead where a bruise had developed and a scab had formed over a large cut.
Her hand flew to her head. “That must’ve happened in the fight.”
“With the man who took your money?” Santana asked tensely.
Her eyes welled with renewed tears and she nodded jerkily. “I thought he was going to . . . he threatened me . . . even after I gave him the money, he said he was going to . . . make me pay. . . .”
Santana’s face drew into hard lines. “Son of a bitch.”
Pescoli, too, felt renewed anger toward the man who’d attacked Ivy. But she held up her hand sensing that Santana’s fury was on a short leash, and said, “But you got away. Spectacularly, by the sound of it.”
Ivy huffed out a sound between a chuckle and a sob.
