The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa Jackson

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      “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.

      To be killed in the line of duty and leave her a widow with a small child.

      The worst part of it was that Joe hadn’t ever given up the woman who had wrecked their marriage in the first place. He’d lied and said the affair was over, but he had never completely broken it off with a woman who had been one of Regan’s high school friends.

      Gina Walters, also married, had come to the funeral and bawled her eyes out, even leaving a white rose on the casket, while Pescoli had stood by and taken it, her young son’s fingers clenched in her own.

      “Bitch,” she said now, ignoring the washing machine that threatened to rock wildly as she headed up the stairs. She made a quick sandwich of leftover ham, Dijon mustard and dry bread, tossed a few scraps to Cisco and downed another Diet Coke before heading out the door.

      It was nearing dark now and she was due back at the office, but as she hit the garage door button she wondered where the hell her son was.

      “I think we’re going to see a break in the weather,” MacGregor said as he spooned a hot glop of some kind of chili into a bowl and handed it to her.

      “When?”

      “Soon.”

      “How soon?”

      “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” He walked into the kitchen and rummaged in a drawer. Less than a minute later he returned, handed her a spoon, then walked back to the pot resting in the fire and scooped some of the chili into a second bowl. A pan of pre-mixed cornbread was “baking” in a cast-iron skillet half buried in the coals, the edges of the bread already singed.

      “How do you know? You got a television hooked up to a generator somewhere? Or a direct line to the weather service?”

      “It’s just a feeling.” He glanced out the window to the snowy landscape. Darkness was falling fast, long shadows stretching through the trees, making the cabin feel more isolated than ever.

      “A feeling?” Cradling the bowl in one hand, she stirred the chili, its spicy steam warming her face. She was improving a little, the throb in her ankle lessening, the pain in her ribs muted unless she moved too quickly or laughed too hard. But she wasn’t betting on “feelings.”

      “It’s time. The storm should let up.”

      She looked out the window and shook her head, not daring to believe in miracles, as the storm didn’t show any signs of letting up, not to her. She took a bite. The chili, a brand she’d eaten dozens of times, was now fabulously delicious. She took another bite and watched MacGregor at the fire.

      Using a work glove as a pot holder, he retrieved the cornbread from the fire and cut her a chunk with the very knife she’d stolen earlier. He dropped the large square into her bowl and she picked at the crusty top.

      It was as delicious as the chili, but hot enough to keep her from eating too quickly. Which was probably good, as it was all she could do not to bolt down the food.

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