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That’s the au
nt in you talking. The reason you’re not on the case. It’s not just about jurisdiction but objectivity. Alvarez’s voice rang in her ears. And you just can’t trust your gut, Pescoli. You know that. You need facts.
Attempting to shove that nagging voice out of her head, she decided it was time to put a call in to Chilcoate again. Pescoli wanted her facts straight before she and Tanaka talked and she wanted to ferret out how much of her niece’s story was straight-up facts and how much was a load of bull crap.
You might not like what you find.
“Too bad,” she said aloud, startling the baby. He began to cry.
“Sorry. Come on, let’s get you ready for the day.” With her mind half on the mystery surrounding her sister’s murder, Pescoli bathed and changed Tucker, then watched him play, lying on his back and trying to touch the toys and mirror that dangled from an arch that was secured to a padded mat on the floor. His private “baby gym” was one of the gifts she’d received from a surprise baby shower that was thrown in her honor by Joelle Fisher, the receptionist and self-appointed maven of all things celebratory in the department. Over Pescoli’s objections, and after the baby had arrived, Joelle had mounted her coup and lured Pescoli to the station. She’d gone reluctantly to find the conference room decorated in baby blue ribbons, onesies, and booties, the table piled high with gifts. Pescoli had been surprised, and a little angry, and eventually gracious, though it kind of killed her to admit that Joelle had been right. It was nice to have a party for the baby. This little gym was part of the bounty she’d received.
Now, lying on his back, Tucker swiped at the colorful objects. He grinned and kicked and was delighted when Pescoli swatted at the little paisley elephant that swung over his head.
With Tucker occupied, she gave one last glance out the window as she put in another call to Chilcoate, pushing aside the eerie feeling that had been with her earlier. Her attention switched back to her son, which was the reason she didn’t notice the reflection on the lenses of the field glasses trained on the house.
* * *
“I see you,” the woman dressed in white whispered, her breath fogging in the freezing air. Lowering her binoculars, she stared at the snow-crusted cottage built recently on the opposite shore. Warm patches of light glowed in the windows, reflecting on the ground, and behind the panes, people moved about. A family. Close and feeling safe, a fire sending curling smoke out of the chimney, lights visible even over the garage in what, she assumed, was an apartment.
For the older son.
Who came and went as he pleased.
The daughter lived in the house along with the man, wife, and newborn.
So cozy.
So safe.
A haven nestled in these imposing woods.
But not for long, she vowed, thinking of her own son ripped from her arms and now, she knew, not among the living.
The cold pain filled her chest at the few memories she had of the boy—the sterile birthing room, an unknown doctor wearing a face mask, the wriggling, squalling infant with his shock of wet dark hair and wide mouth. Red-faced, little fists clenched, he’d been placed on her belly for the briefest of instants as the cord was cut. She’d reached for him, wanted to comfort him, but before she had a chance to pull him to her, feel his tiny heartbeat against her own, a nurse—a big woman with blond hair escaping her cap—had swept him away from her. With gloved hands and a heart of ice, she’d quickly walked out of the room, the baby’s cries lingering long after the swinging doors had slowed and closed.
And as she’d felt tears wash down her cheeks, the doctors and nurses had swiftly and efficiently cleaned her and the bed where she’d birthed her son to eventually leave her alone in a private room, a sterile spot where an empty bassinet beside the bed reminded her of her loss.
Never had she felt so bereft.
Never had she been so alone.
Even now, she felt a shimmer of emotion.
Tears started to burn in her eyes as she’d finally found her son.
She’d finally found her son, but it had been much too late.
She focused on the house across the lake again.
A shadow passed in front of a downstairs window. The woman—Regan Pescoli—holding her infant, cradling his head, a moving silhouette.
“You will know,” she whispered, at the thought of her vengeance. “And you will feel my pain.”
She thought about her rifle, high powered and far reaching, its laser sight able to pinpoint a target so that the shot would be accurate from over five hundred yards.
Just far enough.
Chapter 16
