He glared at her with such intensity that for the smallest second she wondered if he were jealous that she’d never had any interest in him.
“Well . . . I asked you what I did, but I really didn’t expect to have my character annihilated right here on the porch this morning.” Her own temper had sparked and she couldn’t help but add, “And who’re you to judge? You’ve had your share of women, some of them married, always one on the side.”
“I never banged one sister while engaged to another.”
She drew a breath. She wanted to haul off and slap him, but instead, backed up a step, her gloved hands tightening into hard, furious fists.
“We’re not talkin’ about me, Hattie.”
“I came here to . . . bury the hatchet. To try and make some peace with you and Cade and now, at least with you, I see it was a mistake.”
“You got that right.” Zed pointed a finger right at her chest. He whistled to the dog and Shad slunk past his legs to the warm interior of the house. “You asked what it was you did that pissed me off. Let’s just make something clear, okay? It wasn’t what you did, Hattie, it’s who you are.”
Chapter 21
Leaving the door of her office ajar, Pescoli hung her jacket on the hook near her file cabinet. She’d been fighting a headache all day, but the pain at the base of her skull had eased up a bit after lunch, which was a good thing. A damned good thing. She didn’t have time to deal with a migraine, not now anyway.
Kicking out her desk chair, she sat down, her eyes already on the computer screen. She heard shouts in the hallway as one of the deputies led a suspect toward an interrogation room. The guy was handcuffed and shackled, his chains rattling. Pescoli cast a glance in his direction. Shaved head, curled upper lip, fury flaring in eyes set deep in his head; he was twitching a bit, too, probably higher than a kite, the smell of smoke clinging to him filtered into her room as he passed.
“I didn’t do nothin’!” he was arguing, angry at the world, and especially Deputy Kayan Rule, who was guiding him past Pescoli’s door toward a back hallway. “You can’t do this to me, man! I want a fuckin’ attorney. You hear that? I got rights!”
Rule said something back, but Pescoli didn’t hear it. Whatever he’d muttered was effective as the scumbag immediately clammed up.
“Good,” she said aloud as she refocused on her computer screen.
As for all of Alvarez’s personal questions and quick-fix solutions to her personal problems, they were probably spot-on, irritating as that was. Though, of course, she hadn’t been completely honest with Alvarez, hadn’t copped to the fact that her nights were filled with weird, dark dreams that kept sleep at bay. Nor did she admit that sometimes she felt as if unseen eyes were watching her. She’d never been paranoid, had always been fearless, too much so, she’d been told. But lately she’d thought someone was watching her.
Just the other night, as she’d walked to her Jeep and unlocked the door, here, at the station, under the security lamps, she’d felt as if her every move were being observed, and her skin had literally crawled. She’d been alone in the lot, the wind cold and biting when she’d experienced the sensation that someone was watching, possibly targeting her. Adrenaline pumping, she’d looked over her shoulder, surveyed the lot that had been scraped free of snow. Several vehicles shone under the bluish glare of the tall lamps. It had been eerily quiet, no traffic on the side street, no cops heading to their vehicles or pausing for a smoke on the way home. She’d been totally alone, and she’d seen no dark figure hiding in the shadows, no suspicious person scuttling out of sight, no assassin sighting a rifle at her. She’d thought for a fleeting second about Claudia Dubois’s assertions that someone had been watching the judge’s home from the park, a man in winter camouflage. Her throat had turned to dust, her nerves stretched thin as she’d unlocked the Jeep and double-checked the backseat and cargo space, all the while feeling like a moron—a scared-spitless moron.
She’d told herself to get a grip and noticed her hands were shaking a little, her craving for a cigarette intense, though she hadn’t given in, probably because she refused to buy a new pack.
The job was getting to her. As was the stress of the holidays.
No way would she admit the fact that she was suddenly a little nervous, that she’d actually reached for her sidearm . . . just in case.
No doubt Alvarez, if she had an inkling about Pescoli’s night terrors, would either psychoanalyze her partner herself or send her straight to a psychiatrist’s couch.
There was no reason for that, Pescoli decided, as she scanned her e-mail, hoping for something, a tip or piece of evidence that would help break open the case. As she sorted through her virtual in-box, she had to admit, at least to herself, that Alvarez had been right on several counts. She, as a mother, had to let Jeremy go, to make his own way and deal with his mistakes. Conversely, she needed to keep a closer eye on her daughter and try to find out what was going on in Bianca’s brain that skewed her perception of herself. Unfortunately, some of the bad self-esteem came directly from Michelle encouraging her to “get fit” or “trim down” or however she phrased it as she handed Bianca a bikini meant for a twelve-year-old.
Muttering under her breath, she decided she’d have a chat with her ex and his petite little wife. It was irritating as hell to know that Michelle really wasn’t all that stupid, despite her on-and-off-again ditzy-blonde act. In Pescoli’s opinion, her ex’s wife was far more cunning and sly than she acted. And she seemed to have a twisted idea of what a woman should be. That was all well and good, except when that ridiculous notion started messing with Bianca’s self-esteem.
Lastly, there was Santana.
She loved him.
There wasn’t a second’s hesitation on her part to admit it, and she did want to live with him. It was just the marriage part that worried her and that, she understood, was her problem. The plain truth was she wanted to marry him, so she’d just have to pack her fear of the rite away and bury it.
To hell with the consequences.
Life was an adventure.
There were no guarantees.
She gritted her teeth. She had some major steps to take once she was home. For now, though, she needed to concentrate on finding the son of a bitch who put two bullets into Grayson and killed Judge Samuels-Piquard. Unfortunately, nothing in today’s batch of e-mails helped.
So much for burying the hatchet, Hattie thought as she left the ranch house. Hands buried deep in her pockets, purse slung over her shoulder, she followed large boot prints toward the outbuildings. Zed had made it pretty damned clear how he felt about her, and there was no arguing the matter, not that she cared to. For as much as Zed despised her, the feeling was mutual. She’d always thought he was the weakest of the clan, a self-absorbed, silent man who, she suspected, had more than a few dark secrets of his own.
Not that it mattered.