Expecting to Die

particular glove, dark purple, is a large, so probably a male. A big male.”
“Which just confirms what we already know.” They’d already determined it
would take a person of some strength to strangle the girl.
“I’m still looking for inconsistencies in the statements of all the kids at the
party and Destiny Rose’s circle of family and friends. Double-checking her
phone and social media information, her email and texts. So far, nothing.”
“All right. See if you can find anything linking her to Lindsay Cronin. We
know they were in the same class and hung out together peripherally, but I
wonder if there’s another connection, one that’s not so obvious.”
“I’ll see if I can come up with anything.”
“Good. Me, too.” Alvarez clicked off, feeling more frustrated than ever.
Lindsay Cronin and Destiny Rose Montclaire, what was the connection?
There had to be a way to crack the case, she told herself as she closed the sun
roof and managed to pull her hair back and bind it again. She just had to figure
out how.

---

CHAPTER 22
P
escoli shifted from one foot to the other. From a small knoll near the parking
lot, she observed the crowd that had gathered at the First Methodist Church.
With a steeply pitched roof, tall steeple, and tracery windows, the church was
straight out of America, circa 1850. Tonight, the grounds around it were filled
with townspeople who had come for the candlelight vigil for Destiny Rose
Montclaire. Somewhere in this throng, Pescoli suspected, was the killer. And
perhaps Donny Justison, Lindsay Cronin, and Kywin Bell knew who.
They weren’t hedging their bets though; several policemen were in the crowd,
some with their families, others with small cameras or their phones, taking
pictures and videos of the crowd.
Destiny’s parents were near the steps, Helene softly crying, dabbing at her
eyes with a wadded tissue, Glenn’s arm around her as he stood, dry-eyed, almost
defiant. A couple of other adults, close friends or family members, Pescoli
guessed, huddled around them.
The Cronins stood off to one side, both dry-eyed, both white-faced, most
likely worrying that they would be attending another vigil soon, one for their
own daughter. A man in his twenties stood next to them. Short and stocky, buzz-
cut blond hair, and grim expression, he looked enough like Roy for Pescoli to
assume he was the older boy, Lindsay’s brother, Malcolm.
But there was a little ray of hope since Lindsay’s phone was still working and,
at least temporarily, it had turned on and someone had sent a message that might
be able to be tracked, though she wasn’t betting that the caller was Lindsay.
Zoller and the techies at the station were working with the cell phone company
and trying to track down where that latest signal had come from. The trouble
was, even if it pinged on a tower, the range here was huge, the exact location
impossible to pinpoint unless the phone was on, the GPS working. Lindsay’s cell
phone records were on the way, so they would soon discover who the last person
she’d contacted before she’d disappeared was.
As she scanned the crowd that had gathered to honor Destiny Rose
Montclaire, Pescoli wondered how Destiny’s murder and Lindsay’s
disappearance were linked. It seemed moronic to her to think they were totally
separate events.
Most of the kids who’d been caught at Reservoir Point nearly a week earlier

---

were in attendance. They appeared appropriately somber, probably because not
only were they standing near each other, but their parents were there, too. They
all filled the lawn that stretched from the church to the parsonage. Donny
Justison stood next to the O’Hara brothers, Alex and TJ, and Rod Devlin and
Austin Reece rounded out the crew. Maddie Averill, along with Lara Haas,
Selena Martinez, and Simone Delaney, was nearby, and even Bianca had elected
to hang out with the group, all of whom were dressed in dark colors, grays and
navy blue, black and brown. Not one of them smiled. No one played with their
cell phones except to use the small lighted screens as candles.
The only friend missing was Lindsay Cronin.
As Pescoli watched, Maddie inched closer to TJ and Lara, seeming to be
looking for someone in the crowd. Maddie whispered something to Bianca, but
their conversation was hushed and brief.
Pescoli recognized Maddie Averill’s parents, and Mary-Beth Delaney. The
Tufts stood nearby: Richtor was positioned behind his wife, Marjory, his hands
on her shoulders, his silver goatee a telltale sign of the disparity in their ages, as
she was at least twenty years younger than he, maybe more, as Jeremy had
known her in school. Richtor was also a good six inches taller than his wife.
Marjory was petite with a curvy figure. She could easily have been mistaken for
one of Richtor’s children. His two sons, Emmett and Preston, were nearby, a few
feet from their father and Marjory, while their mother, Terri, stood at a distance
from them, on the far side of the church, unable to ignore her ex and his new
wife. Her eyes darted in Marjory’s direction even when she was whispering to
Billie O’Hara, Alex and TJ’s mother. Like her former husband, Terri was trim,
even muscular, judging by the width of her shoulders. She was also tall, pushing
six feet, though she was wearing flats. Her features were sharp and tight, large
eyes and a pointed nose that she’d passed on to both of her sons. Her lips were
compressed tightly, and if ever there was hatred in them, it was now directed at
her ex-husband’s young wife, quickly disguised as she looked away. Clearly she
hadn’t gotten over the fact that she’d been thrown over for another woman who
had been little more than a girl at the time. Her frown became an icy smile of
satisfaction as her gaze focused on Marjory, as if she knew something no one
else did.
Huh. Pescoli regarded her thoughtfully, then turned her attention to Billie
O’Hara. Alex and TJ’s mother was dressed in black running gear with a gray
tunic thrown over her yoga pants. She was the shorter of the two women, an
athlete, compact and probably still competing in triathlons. Her hair was so black
it shone whenever light hit it and was now scraped tightly away from her face to
a small knot twisted atop her head. Oversized gold hoops swung from her

---

earlobes, and they danced as she whispered to Terri and chuckled, as if the two
were sharing a private joke. She and Terri both sent sideways looks toward
Richtor and his current wife—something going on there that Pescoli wondered
about.
But they were only part of the mourners. It seemed that half the town was
here, paying their respects.
Pescoli shifted a little for a better view of the Bell brothers, who were front
and center, hard to miss. Kip was taller than most in the crowd and separated
from his brother, Kywin, by his mother, Wilda Wyze, who seemed to have come
to the service with her sons. They didn’t exactly tower over her as Wilda was an
Amazon of a woman, one who, in her youth, had won a couple of local body-
building competitions. Neither the boys’ father, Franklin Bell, nor Greg Wyze,
Wilda’s second husband, was with the family tonight. Greg, nearing fifty, was
the manager of an independent grocery store. His hours varied so he could be
working tonight. He could also have stayed home to care for the younger
children, two girls ten years or so younger than Wilda’s older boys. It was also
likely he didn’t know his stepsons’ circle of friends well enough to feel he
should attend the vigil.
In Franklin’s case, he was probably sitting at the end stool at the Elbow Room,
a hole-in-the-wall bar that was situated in the older section of town near the river
and rumored to be his favorite watering hole.
Kywin shot a glance Pescoli’s way, his face a mask of distrust. When she met
his eyes, he looked quickly away, taking a step behind his older brother, as if
using Kip as a shield. All the while, Wilda glowered, a sense of unease
emanating off her, and she spoke to no one that Pescoli could see, just kept an
eagle eye on her grown sons, both of whom, in Pescoli’s opinion, were thugs.
They knew more than they were saying about Destiny’s death and Lindsay
Cronin’s disappearance; Pescoli was sure of it. She just couldn’t prove that they
were involved, or knew who was.
As she studied the families and friends and acquaintances of Destiny Rose
Montclaire, Pescoli couldn’t help but wonder about the relationship dynamics of
teenagers on the verge of adulthood, most of whom had known each other since
preschool, and now, if not involved, were at least touched by the murder of one
of their own and the disappearance of another.
A soft breeze blew across the churchyard, rustling the branches of the pine and
aspen. Candles flickered, a cause for concern with the dry conditions. Though
the grass surrounding the church was thick and recently watered, the areas
abutting it were dusty and tinder dry.
She spied Santana standing with Jeremy, not too far from Bianca. Santana

---

caught her eye, gave a quick little nod, then let her be. They’d had the
discussion: he’d be with the kids tonight, she’d be on the job.
Reverend Tophman led the service. Dressed in black aside from a white
clerical collar, the minister stood on the porch leading to the vestibule of the
church. He was an unassuming-looking man, starting to bald, his gray hair
military cut, his physique thin from years of running, an open Bible in one hand.
With his other hand, he made gestures as he spoke. His wife, Janie, stood off to
one side, two steps below him and next to their son Bryant, whom Pescoli had
met a time or two and interviewed recently. Bryant hadn’t been outwardly rude,
like the Bell brothers, but he’d been reticent and glum, avoided eye contact by
staring at the floor of the interview room, while Pescoli had tried to pry
information out of him. The reverend and his wife had attended the interview,
allowing their son to talk, encouraging him to speak the truth, but, in Pescoli’s
opinion, they represented a visible physical barrier that hadn’t allowed Bryant
the chance to open up.
Rounder than her husband, with a cap of graying curls, apple cheeks and a
perpetual smile, wearing a simple print dress, Janie watched her husband preach
in obvious adoration, as if she were a wallflower of a school girl and the most
popular boy in school—maybe the quarterback of the football team—had just
asked her to dance. Janie Tophman still appeared lost in puppy love with her
husband of thirty-odd years.
The reverend spoke calmly, in a soothing voice. He was beloved by his
congregation, a pillar of the community, and was always front and center at
many charitable events. He’d been the preacher at First Methodist for over
fifteen years, raised his kids here, and never been relocated by the church, which
was a bit unusual, but maybe reflected his deep ties to the community.
The Tophmans were both vocal about their boy being a “good son, a good
Christian boy,” nearly echoing the very words that Mary-Beth Delaney had used
to describe her daughter, Simone: “a good girl.”
Maybe, Pescoli thought, staring at the sullen kid. Or, maybe not. Rather than
pray when his father suggested they all bow their heads in prayer, Bryant
Tophman, wide-eyed, studied the toes of his black cowboy boots.
“Our children have been taught the way of the Lord,” Janie Tophman had said
to Pescoli after the interview at the station, when they’d been walking out past
Joelle Fisher’s desk. Pescoli remembered the conversation clearly, even though
she’d been trying to avoid Joelle, who was still going on and on about a baby
shower. “Our older children have proved that to be true,” Janie said as she
brushed a nonexistent piece of lint from the bodice of her dress.
“Now, Mother, there’s no reason to brag,” the reverend had responded with a

---

soft, amused chuckle.
“I’m just saying,” Janie had gone on as they walked through the doors. “Both
Barbara Jane and Boyd are upstanding members of their community. Married.
Children. Boyd followed in his father’s footsteps into the ministry and has his
own congregation down in Boise. Barbara is a stay-at-home mom who
homeschools.” Janie had beamed with pride, her chest swelling. The older
children were at least a dozen years ahead of Bryant, so Pescoli thought he might
have been an “oops,” but she’d never say as much, especially considering her
current condition.
Even so, she’d been left with the feeling that Bryant was very efficiently
pulling the wool over his parents’ adoring eyes.
“See anything?” Alvarez asked in a whisper as she crossed the patchy parking
lot and joined Pescoli.
“The usual. Same kids that were at Reservoir Point to start with. It’s like déjà
vu all over again,” she said quietly, “and then there’s the production crew.
Barclay Sphinx’s crowd.” She hitched her chin to a spot on another rise, where
cameras were rolling and Fiona Carpenter was buzzing around, trying to look
somber, but clearly more interested in camera angles and lighting. Lucky was
planted near her, standing with his hands together, never letting any member of
the crew out of his sight for long. Michelle, for once, wasn’t at his side.
“Not the press?”
“They’re here.” Pescoli motioned toward a guy with a shoulder cam, and what
appeared to be a female reporter standing closer to the church, near a laurel
hedge running alongside the building. Manny Douglas was in the congregation,
front and center, listening raptly to the reverend’s speech and probably recording
every word. And, as expected, Sheriff Cooper Blackwater was standing near the
edge of the mourners, his hawkish features tight, lips compressed, gaze sliding
over each person in the congregation.
“How were things in Missoula?”
“Veronica Palermo thinks Donny Justison is a god. If he needs an alibi, she’s
going to provide it.”
“Great,” Pescoli muttered sardonically.
“Yeah.”
As the sermon wore on, Pescoli caught sight of Michelle hurrying from the
street, where she’d obviously just parked her car. She was in heels and a short
dress, her gaze searching the throng. She spied Luke and waved, then quickly
started weaving through the packed mourners toward him.
“We’ve got ourselves a three-ring circus under the guise of being a vigil for
Destiny Rose,” Pescoli said dryly.

---

For the better part of a week, Pescoli had been doing a slow, steady burn. It
had started the night she’d returned home and Bianca had admitted that she had
agreed, through Lucky’s urging, and with his parental permission, to do the
damned reality show. Later tonight, they’d begin filming while the rest of the
town, under Mayor Justison’s guidance, was preparing for Big Foot Daze, which
had come to be through a quickly convened meeting of the city council where
Sphinx had spoken and agreed to host the celebration over Labor Day. That
would be pushing things, as it was already August, but the mayor had been
thrilled and declared, through an article in the Mountain Reporter, that the event
would help the economy, create jobs, and put Grizzly Falls on the map.