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That stopped Pescoli cold. “I don’t know. Do you?”
“If you mean did I do something wrong, then no! But . . . on TV. You know those cop shows, they always get attorneys before they talk.”
“The suspects.”
“Am I a suspect?” Horror rounded her eyes.
“Mom!” Jeremy shot his mother a harsh glare, reminding her of the tragedy Ivy was living, the gruesome scene she’d gone home to. “Come on. Lay off. Give her a damned break.”
“I’m just letting her know.”
Then, because she knew it would be on the news and maybe that’s what Santana was so keen on, she added, “I think I should tell you that Troy Boxer is missing.”
“Troy?” Ivy whispered, disbelief evident.
“He and a roommate of his. Ronny Stillwell.”
She blinked. “Why?”
“Unknown.”
“What happened?” Her voice was a squeak and Jeremy’s grip on her shoulder tightened.
“That’s what the police are trying to find out. I talked to the detectives on the case and Detective Paterno told me that both men are missing.”
“But I—I don’t understand. Why are the police coming here?” She made a circular motion with her hand, to include everything in the house and probably the entire county. “Are they looking for Troy and Ronny?”
“No, they’re coming to talk to you.” They’re following your trail....
Pescoli thought about what else Paterno had told her. That the man in Albuquerque who had been set on fire had identified Ivy as the person who’d tried to make him into a human torch.
She decided she’d let the SFPD handle that one. They needed to see Ivy’s reaction first hand.
Despite the fact that Pescoli was the girl’s aunt and she felt a tremendous amount of empathy for Ivy and the horror she’d so recently lived through, Pescoli sensed Ivy was holding back. She knew something she wasn’t telling. And two people were dead. No matter how much or how little Ivy Wilde was involved in her parents’ deaths, the truth had to be uncovered.
Pescoli was, after all, first and foremost a cop.
Chapter 22
It had to be done, Troy thought as the pickup bounced down an abandoned logging road.
Troy knew it and she did, too.
In fact, she’d given the order.
He glanced at his “friend” who was still at the wheel, squinting through the windshield, fingers curled over the steering wheel in a death grip.
Ronny Stillwell had to go.
He wasn’t even hiding his second thoughts any longer. No, Ronny-Boy was already planning ahead, ready to turn himself in and work a deal with the cops. He’d been jabbering about it for the last hour.
“What kind of deal do you think you can get?” Boxer asked him again. “We both pulled the triggers, and it was premeditated. No question about it. So, I don’t know about you, but I’d rather spend the rest of my life in Mexico or Canada or Costa Rica, or any other place you can name, with a hundred grand in my pocket than sitting in a six-by-eight jail cell with a four-hundred pound roommate.”
“Jesus, you make it sound like we don’t have any choice,” he whined.
“We don’t. Once we pulled those triggers, our options became limited. Okay? Very limited. You know that.” He couldn’t believe Stillwell was so stupid, so weak. Frowning, Troy added, “Just drive . . . It’s only a little farther and then we get our money and take off.” Why was the guy being such a moron? He added, “You know the plan, take Ninety-Three due north through Kalispell and Whitefish, cross into Canada with our fake IDs and we’re in like Flynn. We’ll be in Calgary in eight, maybe nine hours. Now, what’s wrong with that?”
“A million things could go
