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“Of course,” Sarina said with forced sincerity. All of a sudden Pescoli remembered why she didn’t get along with either of her sisters, not the two remaining and not Brindel, though, with the current situation, the thought made her feel guilty.
“I doubt Macon or Seth, either one, will want to come and live with you, but hey, what do I know? You’re right—they’re a lot more familiar with you than me. So, go for it.” The last thing Sarina, in her current emotional state, needed was the Latham boys/men hanging out, but maybe she needed to learn by experience. “Just be careful, okay? Right now . . . with everything up in the air as to the homicides, everyone’s a suspect.”
“Including my nephews.”
“Technically they’re not, you know. They’re Paul’s kids. They have a mother.”
“Katrina?” Sarina let out a snort. “She’s never been a mother of any kind and after the divorce, she let Paul raise them. With Brindel. She was more of a mother to them than Katrina ever was.”
“Still—”
“And now you think Macon and Seth killed Brindel and Paul?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you insinuated it. That’s the trouble with you, Regan. You’re so suspicious. You see the bad in everyone!”
“Oh, come on, Sarina.”
“It makes me crazy. The boys, Paul’s boys. They’re not perfect, but none of us are. Deep down they’re good kids.”
“If you say so.”
“I do!”
Pescoli thought of the Menendez brothers. Convicted of murdering their rich parents. Probably some people might have described them as being deep-down good. Until the truth won out.
“All right. I just wanted to let you know that Ivy’s here.”
“Well, thank you. And thank God for that. I’m . . . I’m sorry I got a little . . . upset. It’s a hard time.”
“I know. I’ll have Ivy give you a call when she wakes up.” She ended the call and kept any other thoughts she had to herself. That was the trouble with advice. Everybody wanted it, solicited it, but for the most part, ignored it when given. Better to keep one’s mouth closed.
* * *
How much more could she tell?
What should she hold back?
Ivy lay in the spare bedroom in her aunt’s home and feigned sleep, though slumber hadn’t come.
She was dead tired. Exhausted. But at the same time wired, her brain running in circles.
She wondered if she’d ever sleep again. Or would she forever see her mother’s gray face, a bullet hole front and center in her forehead every time she closed her eyes. Surely the image would fade.
How had she ever gotten herself into a mess like this?
Why had she listened?
What desperation had made her agree?
She started to cry and fought it. God, she hadn’t cried in years. Maybe since she was around nine, and now she couldn’t seem to stop the waterworks.
She could hear her mother: You’ve made your bed, Ivy, so now you get to lie in it.
But the pain wouldn’t go away.
And the fear wouldn’t stop chasing at her, nipping at her heels. She thought of the man she’d set on fire. Had he died? So now she was a killer? A murderess? Even though he’d robbed her and surely meant to do her harm?
