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“Regan?”
Behind him she caught a glimpse of a flocked Christmas tree, pink and gooey-looking, standing guard over the flat screen as the warm smell of cinnamon curled from the interior. “Your ex-wife.”
“Yeah, I know. What’s with all the protocol? Regan’s not here. No way she would be.”
“She’s missing and she left me a message that said she had business with you and—”
“Missing?” he interrupted harshly. Wariness darkened his hazel eyes. “What do you mean, missing?”
“She didn’t show up for work today and she’s not at the house.”
“Are you shittin’ me?” he demanded, disbelieving.
“Lucky!” a female voice shrilled behind him. Michelle, his wife, a compact, curvy woman, was barreling through the living room toward the front door.
“Watch your language! Bianca’s here.”
“Oh, save me,” a girl said as Regan’s daughter pushed her way past her father and stared at Alvarez suspiciously. “What are you talking about? Mom can’t be missing. What’s that supposed to 64
Lisa Jackson
mean?” She looked up at her father. “This is a joke, right?” But she was concerned. Her eyes, so much like her father’s, reflected his worry.
He waved off the question. To Alvarez he said,
“Start at the beginning.”
“That’s what I was going to suggest you do.”
“Well, for God’s sake, come on in,” Michelle said, glaring at her husband and giving him a little-girl pout. “It’s freezing out there and our gas bill is already too high.”
Reluctantly, Lucky stepped away from the door and Alvarez stomped snow off her boots before crossing the threshold and walking into a room filled with Christmas decor. Along with the pink flocked tree, there were lights strung over the mantel and candles taking precedence over the hunting and sports magazines strewn over the tables. Ceramic elves with big eyes, drooping hats, and, in Alvarez’s opinion, wicked, leering smiles were tucked between table legs and on windowsills.
“So you haven’t seen Regan since . . . ?”
“Last week sometime when we picked up the kids,” Lucky said.
“Friday,” Michelle chimed in as she waved Selena toward the cluster of chairs near an unlit fireplace where inside the firebox, dangling dangerously over the charred logs, a plastic Santa’s boot was visible, as if Old St. Nick were actually climbing down the chimney. “In the afternoon.”
“But you talked with her since.” She caught a glimpse of the local news on the television where there was running footage of a woman being forced into a squad car. Breaking news from Spokane, Wash- ington, the running caption read. Suspect arrested
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in the Star-Crossed Serial Killer homicide investiga- tion.
She perched on the edge of a blue side chair while her partner’s ex-husband took up what appeared to be his usual spot on the couch. Cisco, traitor that he was, hopped up beside Lucky and turned his beady eyes on Alvarez.
“Yeah. Yesterday. When she found out the kids were with me.” His gaze wandered to the television.
“Looks like you caught the guy, huh?”
“Remains to be seen.”
“Maybe Regan took off for Spokane to be part of the bust.”
“Then the sheriff’s office would know where she was,” Bianca sneered, though she chewed nervously on her lower lip.
