The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa JacksonЧитать онлайн книгу.
“You don’t see her.”
“Nope. And it suits us both fine. My old man took off before I was born. Never married my mother. I figure that’s why she kept trying.”
“Did you ever meet him?”
“What is this? Twenty questions?”
“At least,” she said, and he finally leaned back in his chair, eyeing her over the rim of a cup that had to be holding cold coffee.
“Okay, I met him once. When I was about eighteen. It didn’t go well.”
She shifted in the chair and pain ricocheted up her leg, causing her to suck in her breath.
“I told you to lie down,” he said, placing his cup on the hearth and climbing to his feet. “If you don’t want to go back into the bedroom, you can lie here on the couch, or on the recliner, where you can elevate your feet.”
“Oh. Well.”
He walked over to her chair, picked the knife off the small table and carried it to a small bureau positioned near the tattered old La-Z-Boy. “You wouldn’t want to forget this,” he said. He set the boning knife in reach of the chair.
“I don’t need it.”
“Of course you do. You don’t know me. You don’t trust me and you’re stuck here. Now, come on.” He crossed the room again and offered her the crutch. “You rest and I’ll make us dinner.”
“Dinner?”
“Stew and chili out of cans.” His lips twisted upward. “Gourmet chili,” he clarified, then helped her to her feet and walked her to the recliner. “Trust me. You’ll love it.”
That was the trouble. She couldn’t let herself trust him. Not for a minute.
Chapter Twelve
Through the icy window, Regan saw Lucky’s pickup roll up the lane to idle near the front walk.
And, of course, he wasn’t alone in the black Dodge that was jacked up higher than normal.
In the passenger seat, appearing very cool and lofty in what looked to be designer sunglasses, sat his new wife, the oft-quoted Michelle.
Pescoli’s guts tightened just a fraction. Though she told herself and the outside world that she was “way over” her ex, she still felt a pinch of tension every time she had to deal with him. And wifey.
Regan made a face. She and Michelle were worlds apart. For the most part, Michelle was pleasant enough, just not the sharpest tool in the shed, the kind of woman who expected a man to do everything for her, the type Regan didn’t like and really didn’t trust.
But there it was. Like it or not, Michelle, via Lucky and their children, was a part of her life.
Which was a real pisser.
She set her soft drink down, crossed the small living room to the front door and opened it just as Lucky began stomping snow off his boots on the minuscule area some builder had decided was an adequate front porch.
“Everybody ready?” Lucky asked, looking at her through the glass panels of the storm door with his Pescoli eyes. Deep set and hazel, almost blue, they were sexy as hell. As was Lucky. Tall and trim, with thick nearly blond hair and a bad-boy attitude that drove women wild, Luke Pescoli was one good-looking man. And a pain in the backside.
“Jeremy’s not here. I don’t know what his deal is.”
“I told you,” Bianca said, her softer side disappearing in her father’s presence. “He’s not coming.”
“Any reason why not?”
“He said you’re not his real dad.”
“Like this is news,” Lucky said. He sent his ex-wife a can-you-believe-this look. “Somethin’ happen?”
Regan shook her head. “Not that I’m aware of, but who knows? He’s seventeen, which he tells me all the time. He believes he’s grown up and can do his own thing.”
“He’s deluded,” Bianca chimed in from her bedroom.
Lucky, frowning beneath the brim of his black felt hat, asked, “You want me to set him straight?”
“Nah. I’ll take care of it,” Regan assured him. “I’ll call you and let you know what he says.”
He nodded as Bianca pushed her way through the door and headed to the king-cab truck. Michelle, all bright and cheery, was waving frantically, her beauty-pageant smile pinned to her face.
“How’s the serial killer case goin’?” Lucky asked.
“It’s going,” she hedged. Lucky knew she couldn’t talk about it.
“Well, don’t let it get to you. I know how these things do. It’s not personal.”
“Isn’t it? A psycho killing women in my backyard?” She watched her daughter climb into the truck. “Sorry, Lucky, I take it personally. It’s very personal.”
He pulled a face. “Some things don’t change.”
“No. And they shouldn’t!”
“Okay, okay. I give up, Officer!” He held up his hands and backed up a step in mock surrender and she almost laughed. Almost. “Didn’t mean to step on a nerve,” he said, squaring his hat on his head. “Let me know what’s up with Jeremy.”
“I will. And make sure Bianca does her homework. She’s drowning in Algebra II and Global Studies. I even think she’s struggling in English, which is easy for her.”
“Really?” Lucky said. “We’ll take care of it. Michelle was an A student.”
A four-point from the woman who didn’t believe in homework? Regan doubted it, but she kept that little insight to herself. “Good. She can tutor Bianca,” Regan said, though her jaw was tight.
Somehow she managed to nod, smile and sketch out a wave that was meant to include her daughter, her ex-husband and his new wife. Closing the door, she felt an empty sensation that bothered her. She knew it was silly, but watching Bianca get swallowed into Lucky’s new family took a toll on her. The fact that Bianca always threw what a good time she had at her father’s place in Regan’s face was also a major pain.
One she had to live with.
She glanced at the TV and was relieved to see that Ivor Hicks was no longer on the screen. God, couldn’t anyone shut that fruitcake up? He would put the public into a panic, get the press all stirred up and probably play into the killer’s hands. No doubt the pervert who got off on freezing women to death was getting off on all the publicity and attention.
Her good mood totally shattered, she clicked off the televison and headed downstairs. She tried Jeremy’s cell one more time, listening as the connection went directly to voice mail while she tossed in a load of laundry. As the washer filled, she poked her head into Jeremy’s room, the “den of iniquity,” and wondered where her son was. Her gaze landed on a picture of Joe, tucked between a mess of CDs and video games on the bookcase. Joe Strand, her high school sweetheart, the man she’d given her virginity to, the man she’d married and the man, when things had gotten rocky, she’d cheated on. Yes, they’d been separated at the time, and yes, he, too, had carried on an affair, but she’d broken her marriage vows pretty damned willingly, almost as a way to get back at him.
That had been a long time ago. Hell, she hadn’t even been out of college and then she’d gotten pregnant. With Joe’s son. Jeremy.
Joe had questioned the kid’s paternity, of course, until Jeremy had been born and was the spitting image of her estranged husband. It had taken a few months before they’d decided to give the marriage another chance.
And then Joe had the nerve to die.