Willing to Die

Book 8: Alvarez & Pescoli Novel

by Lisa Jackson

Genres: Police Procedurals; Suspense

Synopsis

WHEN A KILLER HAS NOTHING TO LOSE
The crime scene is as puzzling as it is brutal. Doctor Paul Latham and his wife, Brindel, are found dead in separate beds in their beautiful San Francisco home, each the victim of a gunshot wound to the head. There are no signs of forced entry, and despite the emptied safe it's clear this murder isn't random.

THERE'S EVERY REASON
For Detective Regan Pescoli, news of her sister's death brings grief mixed with guilt. She and Brindel weren't close, and Pescoli barely knows her teenage niece, Ivy, a secretive girl who lands on her doorstep in Grizzly Falls, Montana. Though Pescoli is on maternity leave, she's soon mired deep in the investigation headed by her partner, Selena Alvarez. But as the list of suspects keeps growing, so does the body count . . .

TO BE AFRAID . . .
Maybe it's exhaustion or hormones that have Pescoli on edge, feeling more vulnerable than ever before. Or maybe the chill running through her veins is justified. Because as the case takes a new, terrifying turn, Pescoli's loved ones and her life are at the mercy of a killer who'll go to any lengths to see her suffer . . .

Release date: July 30, 2019

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 464

Sample

Chapter 1

 

Brindel wanted a divorce.

Correction: She needed a divorce.

From Paul Latham . . . make that Doctor Paul Latham. He always did.

Self-important bastard.

Glancing out the bathroom window to the night beyond, the lights of the city pinpoints, the view even from this room stunning, she was ready to give it all up. But of course, Paul wouldn’t go down without a fight. Not that it was about her or love. She actually laughed at that ridiculous thought, then took a sip from her second—or was it her third?—glass of wine. Didn’t matter. She finished the last drop, considered pouring another, then decided against it, leaving the glass on the marble counter. Whatever love she and Paul had shared nearly fifteen years before had shriveled and died long ago, like a worm on a hot sidewalk. All that was left was a hard, heartless shell of their marriage. No, the reason he would fight her was that he wasn’t a man who could lose. Not in his life, not in his marriage, not in his job, and especially not to her.

She shook her head. She’d been such a fool. She’d suspected early on, and discovered a few years into the marriage, that he’d expected her to raise his two sons, Macon and Seth. Which she had. Both disgustingly like their father.

Angrily she swiped off her makeup, scrubbing carefully, though she noticed a few irritating and stubborn lines on her face that needed a good shot of Botox. Afterward, she massaged cream into her skin, then brushed her hair until it gleamed. It now was blonder than her natural shade and streaked to hide any hint of gray, then cut in the most fashionable style money could buy, perfect layers framing her face to fall softly to her shoulders.

A glimpse of her closet showed off racks of shoes—heels, pumps, sandals, running shoes, a pair for every occasion displayed on lighted shelves that were slightly elevated. Neat rows. Each pair worth a small fortune.

How had she thought footwear costing thousands was worth the price of this hollow marriage? Along with the shoes, deeper into the wide walk-in were racks and racks of dresses, slacks, suits, sweaters, you name it, all designer, all expensive, all hung neatly, the gowns encased in plastic to protect them, purses, too. From the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of the white gown she’d worn at her wedding—well, her second wedding if anyone was counting—and she saw the sparkle of beads, the cut of French lace, and cringed inwardly as she remembered wearing that gown and feeling as if her life, finally, had turned a favorable corner as she’d swept down the aisle to meet her handsome, successful groom. Despite his flashes of anger while engaged, his need to dominate, the warning knell from her sisters, she’d been determined to give herself and her toddler daughter a new, “perfect” life.

She’d had no idea how wrong she would be.

And now . . . now she needed to do something about it. Before it was too late. As it was, she was already over forty, for God’s sake, her kid nearly grown. She stepped out of her robe and let it puddle on the floor. Turning sideways to the full-length mirror, she noted that her belly was flat and hard, her breasts high with the help of surgery and enhancements, her nipples pert and dark, her legs long and lean, even showing a bit of muscle, her posture erect. She was still very attractive, could compete with women ten, maybe even twelve years younger than she . . . well, maybe. If she had to. Not that she was looking for a new man. No way. At least not until she was single. She didn’t want the hint of impropriety on her part. She’d already spoken to one of the best lawyers in town; she just hadn’t pulled the trigger and filed for divorce yet.

“Tomorrow,” Brindel said, mouthing the words as if her husband, who was in the next suite, could hear her.

More than slightly buzzy, she finally took out her contacts and finished getting ready for bed, which was basically undressing to slip between the soft sheets completely naked, a practice her husband had once found exciting, then disgusting, then had totally ignored. That had been before the remodel of the second floor into two master suites. His and hers. It had seemed perfect at the time, but now was claustrophobic. Silk wallpaper, coved ceilings, crystal chandelier, huge four-poster bed and private bathroom with its grand walk-in closet, all part and parcel of her jail cell.

And Brindel needed freedom.

More than anything else.

She’d only stayed as long as she had because of her daughter . . . and now . . . well . . .

She slid beneath the thick duvet, felt the polished cotton smooth against her skin, and turned off the bedside lamp. Her appointment was at nine, when she was certain her husband would be in the midst of his rounds at the hospital attached to the medical school, a short walk through the park from this house. She’d tell her attorney to file the papers and then let the chips fall where they may.

Smiling at the thought that she was finally doing something, well, actually the one thing he would abhor, she burrowed under the covers and drifted away, her dreams lulling her only to be interrupted by . . . what? The sound of footsteps? Oh, God, surely Paul wouldn’t try to come into her room and slide into her bed.... Physically shuddering at the prospect, she opened an eye to darkness, the room lit only by the glow of the bedside clock.

Was that breathing she heard? Soft and low over the pounding of her racing heart?

She swallowed back her fear and stared, eyes narrowing, fingers curling at the edge of the duvet.

For a second she thought she saw movement—a shadow crossing in front of the armoire—but realized it was the mirror mounted over the antique, reflecting the sway of branches from the window on the opposite wall.

Don’t be neurotic. You have one more night and then you start the fight for your freedom . . . and half of Paul’s estate. He owes it to you for giving him almost fifteen of your best years. In her mind she calculated what she might receive, less attorney’s fees. Three million? Maybe four? She’d earned every penny of it being married to the jerk-wad.

And it would be enough to last her the rest of her life.

Slightly calmer, she still listened for any sound that he might be stealthily walking down the hallway to her bedroom door, but she heard nothing . . . all her imagination. Her nerves were strung tight, that was it. Because of her meeting in the morning. She was alone. Safe. In her own damned bedroom. Closing her eyes again, she started to breathe easier.

And there it was.

The whisper-soft scrape of a footstep. Then another.

And a new smell. Musky and male and . . .

Brindel’s eyes flew open and she gasped, saw the muzzle of a gun just before it was pressed to her forehead.

What??? NO!

She opened her mouth to scream.

Her attacker pulled the trigger.

An ear-splitting blast.

Then nothing.

“No, no, noooo!” Ivy threw a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming.

The carnage was horrible. Mind numbing.

Backing up quickly, the image of death seared forever in her brain, she wondered how everything could have gone so terribly wrong.

She knocked over a small table near the door, a vase with a single rose sliding to the floor, while on the bed . . . oh, sweet Jesus, on her mother’s feminine bed...

Death.

A small dark hole in the smooth forehead, blood coagulated around the entrance wound, spatters of red on the creamy skin. And the eyes, God, her mother’s eyes, sightless and open, seemingly accusing.

Blood on the ruched duvet and the lamp shades, flecks on the thick, white rug covering the ancient hardwood. “Oh, God, oh, God, oh . . .” Her stomach threatened to heave as she turned and fled, down the narrow hall with its long runner, pictures of the family placed perfectly on the hallway . . . and to the next room and the second body, lying facedown, the back of his head a mangle of blood, bone, and brains visible through a huge gaping wound that had destroyed the graying hair that had once been thick, his pride and joy. She backed up, ran into the wall, banging her shoulder as she raced through the familiar rooms, the acrid scent of blood chasing after her, the horrid images burned in her brain.

As she ran, Ivy retched, threw a hand over her mouth and tasted blood. Salty . . . or was that her tears?

Get out. Get out, now! Don’t step in any of it, don’t get it on your shoes. Run like you’ve never run before!

Images blurred in her vision, the old globe in the library, the books, never read but stacked in neat rows to the high ceiling, the mullioned windows overlooking the city, lights winking through the beveled glass. The banister—don’t touch it!—smoothed by over a century of hands sliding along it.

She was gasping as she hurried down the runner of the steps, her feet flying, her hair streaming behind her as she reached the marbled foyer—NO! Not out the front! What are you thinking? There could be people on the street. Old man Cranston walking his aging dachshund, or the Miller girl who was always running the streets at night, or a stranger . . . no, no, no! The back. You need to go out the back door, through the backyard, to the alley. Then, if no one’s around, cut through the park. Fast. Run, damn it!

She skidded around the bottom of the staircase and through a short hallway toward the rear of the old home.

A creak in the floorboards overhead made her stop short.

Was someone up there?

Someone still alive?

Or the killers?

Who? Who?

Holding her breath, she strained to listen over the frantic trip-hammering of her heart.

Was that a footstep?

A noise on the stairs?

Oh. Dear. God.

She didn’t wait to find out, but flew through the darkened kitchen, her knee banging against a bar stool near the center island. “Ow!” Cutting off the scream, she saw the knife block resting on the marble top. Without a second thought, she yanked the butcher knife from its slot and raced to the back door.

Another creak on the stairs.

Shit!

Fear raced through her bloodstream as she found the doorknob and yanked on the door, the reflection of her own silhouette visible in the glass panels, the cold of winter rushing inside. She thought she saw movement behind her—the killer!

Oh, Jesus. No!

Ivy raced down the back porch, slipping on the last step.

She caught herself, but dropped the knife. It clattered against the brick path and she left it, flew through the back gate and didn’t bother to stop as the gate slammed closed behind her. Running down the narrow, crumbling alley for all she was worth, she splashed through a puddle and scared a cat hiding near the garbage cans. It hissed and backed away, white needle-sharp teeth visible in the dim light of a security lamp on the neighbor’s back porch.

Another screech.

The gate opening on its rusting hinges?

The damned cat scared again?

The killer chasing her down?

She didn’t bother to look over her shoulder. Panicked, she sped headlong into the street.

A passing car honked and swerved, barely missing her, street water spraying beneath screeching tires.

She stumbled. Caught herself. Ran.

“Idiot!” a male with a deep voice proclaimed, rolling down the window of his white Volvo to make certain she heard.

She didn’t care. Reeling back from the street, she kept going, scrambling away.

Adrenaline propelling her, she raced between two parked cars and along the sidewalk. She didn’t quit running at the gates of the park, but sped inside. Heart in her throat, she flew along the path. At a bend in the sidewalk, she veered into the undergrowth, away from the pools of light cast by the lampposts that lit the groomed path. Crouching, breathing hard, she scrabbled into rain-drenched thickets, where trees and shrubbery were her salvation. Her skin prickled. Rain slid down her bare head and under the collar of her jacket. She barely noticed, her fear was so intense, the images of the dead bright behind her eyes.

Don’t panic.

But it was too late. Rational thought had disappeared, chased by pure terror. Was it her fault? When she’d agreed . . . ? How the hell had this happened?

She swallowed back a dose of guilt and took stock of her situation.

Ivy had played in this park as a child, knew all the hiding spots, and thought she might be safe, if just for a few minutes, long enough to catch her breath and gather her wits.

What now?

Where could she go?

Where could she hide?

Teeth chattering, body trembling, she tried and failed to dislodge the bloody images of the dead bodies from her mind. Her parents. Slaughtered in their beds. Unsuspecting. The brutality and unfairness of it all was too much and she started to cry, tears burning down her wet, cold cheeks. This wasn’t supposed to happen, she thought wildly. No, not this. Not now. Not ever.

Calm down. Just calm the hell down!

She couldn’t. Bile filled her throat. Her insides revolted. She threw up violently, the contents of her stomach emptying onto the bark dust by a thick-leaved rhododendron bush. Then again. This time bile came up and after wiping her nose and mouth with her sleeve, it was all she could do to prevent herself from dry-heaving. She scuttled backward, deeper into the bushes, distancing herself from the sour pool of vomit, creeping over rocks.

Hiding here was no good.

She’d be found soon.

Those who had killed might still be looking for her.

There was a good chance, she knew, that she was the ultimate target.

With that sizzling thought, she rimmed the park, keeping near the brick fence until she reached the far side. From her hiding spot, she had a clear view of the central fountain, lights directed at the rushing water tumbling over jagged rocks. No one stood gazing at the wet stone, no one appeared on the fringes of light.

And yet she felt the weight of someone’s gaze, someone who was hiding just like she was, someone who would think nothing of taking her life.

Get a grip. No one’s there.

Think.

Come up with a damned plan!

Her insides quivered and she nearly jumped out of her skin as the leaves rattled nearby. Biting back a scream, she scooted closer to the fence as a fat raccoon waddled from the cover of the bushes and padded around the base of a lamp near the path. She let out her breath and tried to pull her thoughts together. So far, it seemed, she hadn’t been followed. The sounds of the city surrounded her, the even rumble of engines and whine of tires as traffic passed on the other side of the brick wall enclosing this block of greenery. Cigarette smoke drifted to her nostrils and she heard muted voices as people passed on the sidewalk on the other side of the brick barrier separating the park from the rest of San Francisco. A quiet cough. A far-off bark. In the distance a foghorn moaned. Yet no hurrying footsteps running toward the park.

Please, God . . .

Attempting to calm herself, to slow her racing heart, to force the fear back into the farthest reaches of her mind, Ivy frantically reviewed her options. She knew she had to escape. Now!

Going back to the house was out of the question.

Calling the police would be a major mistake.

Notifying anyone she knew would only put her in more jeopardy.

She could trust no one. Not a soul.

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way! When she agreed to . . . oh, God. Her mother was dead. Killed.

Hands shaking, she slipped her fingers into the pocket of her jacket, felt her phone and the wad of cash that she’d hidden there. Four thousand dollars. Enough to escape and disappear.

Footsteps sounded. Someone moving fast.

Hurrying through these blocks of greenery.

Her heart lurched.

She bit her lip, trained her gaze toward the sound.

Her ears and eyes straining, her senses on alert, she heard the rapid footfalls, then spied a runner cutting through the park, slim and sleek, a man in reflective running gear striding easily, his breath fogging, earbuds visible as he flew past.

She couldn’t stay here any longer.

It wasn’t safe.

She was a sitting duck.

Ivy slipped through the dense, wet foliage, easing her way to the entrance on the far side of the park and out. Flipping the rain-soaked hood of her jacket over her wet hair, she walked rapidly through the city blocks where skyscrapers knifed upward into the dark sky, patches of warm lights visible in a few apartment windows, security lights in businesses.

By instinct, she headed downhill, toward the waterfront where, she hoped, she’d find a way to leave this city and her painful past forever. A bus out of the city. That’s what she’d do. Find a bus and buy a one-way ticket.

She didn’t care where.

Just as long as it was far, far away.

 

 

Chapter 2

An impatient little cry echoed through the house.

No. Please, just go back to sleep. From her side of the bed, Regan Pescoli glanced at the clock. 2:43 AM. Middle of the night.

What do you expect with an infant?

She eyed the somewhat blurry baby monitor, but as she focused she saw that Little Tucker was indeed awake, moving his arms and definitely making baby noises. Great. Then the screen went blank for a second, only to catch the image again. The monitor was wonky at best, useless at worst. She might have to break down and buy a new one.

Someday.

But not today.

With her husband snoring softly, she slid from the bed, found her robe tossed on a nearby chair, and stuffed her arms through its sleeves as she padded barefoot to the nursery where her baby was starting to raise a serious racket.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she said in a whisper, then, in the dim illumination of the night-light, picked Tucker up and, after a quick diaper change, carried him to the nearby rocker, where she tried to nurse him. Of course that wasn’t working. Hadn’t for the past couple of months. He attempted to suckle and failed, sending up a wail loud enough to raise the dead in five counties.

“Okay, okay.” Carefully she hauled him downstairs, heated a bottle quickly, and sat in Santana’s recliner while Little Tucker ate hungrily. “There ya go,” she said with a smile in her voice, though she was unhappy that she was no longer able to breast-feed him. With both her older children, she’d nursed until they were nearly a year old, but, of course, that had been a long while back, over twenty years for her oldest. “Sorry, little one,” she whispered, placing a kiss on his downy head. “But that’s what you get for having an old . . . er, let’s make that older mother.” Once he’d fallen asleep, she took him back to his crib, then walked into the master bedroom where Santana hadn’t so much as moved.

Perfect.

Before sliding between the covers, she stepped into her slippers, then stepped onto the deck. Snow had piled across its bare planks, though now the night was clear and a million stars were flung across the wide Montana sky. Her gaze moved to the nearby lake, now iced over and serene, a calm vista where tall firs and pines, snow dusted and regal, guarded the far shore.

She loved this view of the lake and the mountains beyond. Loved her new home with her new husband and her children. The air was still, no creatures stirring, and she should have felt at peace.

And yet . . .

As she squinted into the darkness, her eyes thinning on the distant shore of the lake, she felt a strange uneasiness. The hairs at the base of her scalp lifted in warning, as if something evil, unseen but malicious, was staring back at her.

You’ve spent too many years as a detective, seen too many horrific acts, witnessed too much carnage, and face it, though Tucker’s six months old, your hormones are probably still out of whack, and on top of all of that you’re sleep deprived—seriously sleep deprived. There is nothing malevolent lurking in the shadows, no one or nothing evil hiding in the forest. Go to bed. Get some damned sleep.

Turning, she reached for the handle of the door as a gust of wind swept across the frozen water, rushing past her and seeming to whisper:

I see you.

But that was crazy.

And then another gust.

I see everything.

“Who are you?” she whispered, her blood running cold, but as she heard her own words, she shook her head. For God’s sake, no one had said anything. Just her own fears suggesting the words on the wintry air, just her exhaustion causing her to hallucinate. Hell, she was still half asleep . . . it was nothing. She didn’t believe in ghosts or tarot cards or Ouija boards or Sasquatches—especially not Sasquatches—or anything the least bit supernatural. Pescoli would leave all that paranormal crap to Grace Perchant, the local “ghost lady” who lived alone except for a couple of wolf-dog hybrids. Grace claimed she could talk to the dead and see into the future.

Pescoli definitely didn’t.

She walked into the house again, heard her husband’s even breathing, and silently chided herself for being so susceptible. Everything was fine.

But as she locked the door she reminded herself that her service weapon was still locked in a safe in the closet. She then slid into the bed and nestled close to Santana. He murmured something in his sleep and flung an arm around her waist, the warmth of his body invading her own. She closed her eyes, willing herself to relax, but knew that it would be hours rather than minutes before she’d fall asleep again.

Pescoli was certain she’d barely shut her eyes when her cell phone chirped, then vibrated against her nightstand, buzzing loudly.

“No,” she whispered, and pulled the covers over her head. She didn’t care who it was—she couldn’t answer the damned phone, not when she was more tired than she’d ever been in her life. Squeezing her eyes shut, she heard her cell fall onto the floor where it buzzed again.

Flinging off the duvet cover, she glared for a second at the bedroom ceiling before giving herself up to the fact that she never would get enough sleep. Not with two teenagers and one infant living under her roof. Glancing over, she noted that Santana wasn’t in bed with her.

No surprise there; he was always up and at ’em early with the livestock, feeding the horses, cleaning stalls, getting ready to exercise and train the mares, geldings, and stallions in his care.

“Fine,” she muttered, and leaned over the edge of the bed to scoop up the phone.

Alvarez’s name showed on the small screen.

Great.

Why the hell was her ex-partner calling so early? Seven thirty in the damned morning. Then again, Alvarez had probably been up for hours, riding a stationary bike at the gym, or taking a yoga class, or sipping herbal tea, or already hard at work.

“Yeah?” Pescoli growled. She pushed herself up in the bed, propping her back with the pillows, shoving her mass of curls from her forehead. “Do you know what time it is?”

“I wanted to make sure you were awake,” was the all-too-chipper reply.

“Hardy-har-har.”

Alvarez, with her damned routines, by-the-book attitude, and even-tempered, logical brain, was a self-professed “morning person.” Sometimes she bugged the hell out of Pescoli and right now was one of those times. “I thought you’d be up with the baby.”

“Not yet.”

“I assumed he was on a schedule.”

“He didn’t get the memo,” Pescoli said, but grudgingly admitted, “but I gotta get up anyway. I don’t hear anyone else stirring and Bianca’s got school.” Yawning, she flung open the covers just as she heard water running in the hall bath. Her daughter was stepping into the shower. Good.

“Blackwater’s been on the warpath.”

“What else is new?” The sheriff, a younger gung-ho type who had stepped into the job after the death of Dan Grayson, was always trying to improve the department, which, she supposed, was his right. But his take-charge and while you’re at it take-no-prisoners attitude annoyed her. Then again, a lot of things annoyed her. Sleep deprivation had not improved her temperament.

“He’s asked about you coming back.”

“I know.” He’d called several times.

“And?”

“I haven’t decided. I’ve got another couple of months.”

Actually she didn’t. The department was allowing her to use years of accumulated sick leave after returning to the force briefly a few months earlier right after her maternity leave. Now she needed to make a final decision.

Alvarez lowered her voice. “Well, figure it out, okay? And let me know. He’s got me paired with Ramsby and it’s killing me.”

Carson Ramsby, twenty-seven, a bachelor, and a know-it-all who never shut up, considered himself a walking/talking Wikipedia. “I thought you were going to get a new transfer from Helena. Amy Something-or-other.”

“Amy Glass. Didn’t work out. She took a job in Butte.” A pause. “Blackwater has let it be known that he doesn’t expect you back and he thinks I can be a good influence on Ramsby, if that’s even possible.” She hesitated, then added, “Look, I know that you and Dylan have been talking.”

That much was true. Pescoli had spoken a couple of times to Dylan O’Keefe, Alvarez’s fiancé. They’d discussed her becoming a PI as well as his partner.

Alvarez continued, “I can’t tell you what to do—”

“But?” Finding the robe she’d tossed off earlier at the end of her bed, Pescoli slipped one arm through a sleeve, then the next.

“Give me a heads-up, okay?”

“I will. Really.”

They hung up and Pescoli headed into the adjoining bath where she saw her image in the mirror and frowned. Not only were a few irritating gray hairs revealing themselves in her wild, red-blond hair, but also dark circles appeared under her eyes from lack of sleep, and those irritating ten pounds of baby weight. “You’re too old for this,” she told her reflection, then stripped and walked through the shower, feeling the warm jets douse her hair and body while chasing the remaining cobwebs from her brain.

Drying off, she threw on jeans and a sweatshirt, pulled her hair back into a quick ponytail, and didn’t bother with any makeup. She peeked into the nursery and saw that Tucker was sleeping soundly, his little lips moving in a sucking motion, his eyes closed, his cap of dark hair mussed. Silently she backed out of the room and hurried downstairs to find that Santana had already made coffee, thank God, and Bianca was shoving books and her iPad into her backpack. Bianca’s wet hair was pulled into a messy bun and she was wearing worn, holey jeans and a black sweater with a wide neck. For years Bianca had spent hours doing her makeup, hair, and nails before stepping one foot out the door. Not so much anymore.

A new worry.

To go along with a slew of others.

“You get breakfast?” Pescoli poured herself a cup of coffee and saw from the package left near the pot that it was decaf. Not her first choice, but necessary for as long as she breast-fed her baby.

“A yogurt.”

“That all?”

“For now.” Wide eyes looked up at her mother, silently daring her to argue.

Pescoli held up a hand.

“Tuck’s not awake?”

“Not yet. And we want him to stay that way . . . for a while. So have you seen your brother this morning? Your other brother?”

“Nah.” Bianca glanced out the window to the snow-crusted morning and the driveway where several vehicles were parked, including Jeremy’s pickup. “But his truck’s still here.” He lived in a room, well, more like a studio apartment, over the garage. He was always talking about moving out, but so far hadn’t done so and was still working part time while going to school. That was all good. The fact that he was still talking about becoming a cop wasn’t.

Jeremy’s father, Joe, had been on the force, killed in the line of duty, a fate she fervently prayed would not be her son’s. The fact that she, too, was a detective was Jeremy’s favorite fallback position whenever she tried to steer him away from law enforcement.

“I’ll check.”

“You don’t have to check, Mom. He’s an adult and . . . and, you know, he could have company,” Bianca reminded her as her phone gave a quick ring tone and she glanced at the screen. “Oh, fu-frick!” Her lips twisted downward as she read the message.

“Trouble?”

“No. Just Dad. He keeps texting me.” She slid the phone into her back pocket, then grabbed her jacket and backpack from a hook near the rear door.

“He probably won’t stop until you reply.”

“Can’t you do anything about that?”

“We’ve been over this.” But she didn’t blame her daughter. Truth to tell, she would like to string Lucky up by his balls and read him the riot act over and over again or see him drop off the face of the earth. Yeah, that would be better. But she held her tongue. She’d said what she’d had to about her ex and what he’d done months ago, then had fought all her motherly instincts and let her nearly grown daughter deal with the dirtbag that was her father. It about killed her.

“I’m not talking to him. Ever.” Again the challenge as Bianca glared at her mother, but Pescoli was staying out of that dog fight. Bianca’s father, Luke aka Lucky Pescoli, had crossed a line with both Regan and Bianca just this past summer when he’d been instrumental in her kidnapping. Bianca had nearly lost her life and in the process had killed her captor, though no charges had been filed against her. Hence, Bianca was dealing with all kinds of thorny issues that included guilt, anger, fear, and, of course, there was no way she’d forgiven Lucky.

Regan got it.

Lucky Pescoli was handsome as hell, or had been, but was a prick of the highest—make that lowest— order, but she didn’t say it, just sipped her jolt-le