Expecting to Die

I’m not coming back.

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CHAPTER 21
“W
e got the same text,” the Cronins reported when Pescoli stopped by their
house on the way to the vigil for Destiny Rose Montclaire. Darlie was sniffling
against her husband again as they stood in the open doorway, Pescoli in the
shade of the porch’s overhang. When Bianca had received the text from Lindsay,
Pescoli had reacted quickly, calling the department and filling in Zoller as well
as Alvarez. Now, she was facing Lindsay’s parents.
Darlie appeared to shiver despite the heat, and a cardigan sweater had been
tossed over her shirt. Roy, though round, had seemed to shrink a bit, as if his
plaid shirt were suddenly too big. They looked as if they’d aged a decade in a
few days. Their worry was extreme, their fear palpable.
Pescoli felt for them. “I understand there was a group text, but I was hoping
there was more.”
“No,” Roy said, frowning.
“I called back immediately,” his wife said. “To Lindsay. The text came and I
speed-dialed Lindsay. No answer. Then I texted and called and texted and called,
leaving message after message, begging her to respond, but she didn’t.” Her eyes
were flat, her cheeks red from weeping. “Why would she do this to us?”
“She wouldn’t, hon,” her husband assured her. “Not our Lindsay.” His jaw
tightened and he squeezed his wife close.
Pescoli nodded. They were living a parent’s worst nightmare.
A dry breeze scuttled leaves and bark dust across the porch and plucked at
Pescoli’s hair. Clearing her throat, Darlie reached into the pocket of her sweater,
pulled out a Kleenex, and dabbed at the corner of her eyes. “We called Malcolm.
He’s on his way back here from Boise now, should be here any minute. We
hoped he’d heard something more, but he didn’t.”
“Got the same text as the rest of us.” Roy scowled darkly. “It’s like it went out
to every damned person on her contact list on her phone. You know what I think,
Detective?”
“What?”
“I think that whoever took her sent out that group text so everybody would
back off. He knows we’re lookin’ for her, that we won’t stop ’til we find her and
he’s pan-ickin’. Tryin’ to throw us off. Tryin’ to make us think she’s fine, maybe
angry . . . alive and fine.”

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Pescoli nodded; she’d had the same idea. “It’s an angle we’re exploring.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about angles and exploring or anything else. I just
want my girl back.” He was angry, his lips pursed, but his chin wobbled a little,
giving away his fear. His wife tried to say something, but the effort was too great
and she ended up just sighing and squeezing out more tears.
“It’s what we want, too, Roy,” Pescoli said. “And we’re putting all of our
resources into finding her.”
“You’d better, by golly.”
With that, she left feeling worse than she had before. She’d hoped Lindsay’s
parents would have heard more from her, but like Roy, she was very suspicious
that the text had come from Lindsay’s abductor . . . or her killer....
Nope. She wouldn’t think that way. Not yet. But as she climbed behind the
wheel of her Jeep, adjusting the seat back a little farther to accommodate her
ever-widening girth, she couldn’t help but imagine Lindsay Cronin’s face
superimposed on the corpse of Destiny Rose Montclaire.
Would they find Lindsay, strangled, her body submerged in one of the dozens
of mountain streams near Grizzly Falls?
“Damn it all to hell,” she muttered, starting the car and easing into traffic.
After receiving the text, Bianca had checked with all of her friends and sure
enough, they’d received copies of the message: I’m not coming back, but
nothing more. Like Lindsay’s parents, several had tried to reach out to the girl,
by texting or calling or using social media, but there had been no response, at
least none that Pescoli knew of.
So why send the text?
To make people believe Lindsay was alive and letting everyone know she was
leaving for good? That didn’t make any sense. But then, nothing did.
On her way to the vigil, she called Alvarez at the station. So far, Lindsay’s car
hadn’t been located, nor had she used her debit card on her bank account, and the
only activity on her phone was the one very recent text.
She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. This case disturbed her at an
emotional level, the kids involved being in Bianca’s circle of friends. Was that
it? Were they being targeted because they knew something?
Frowning, she drove to a stop sign and waited for a thirty-something woman
pushing a stroller. Backed by the lowering sun, her profile in silhouette, the
mother was distracted, phone in the hand as she pushed the stroller, her
concentration on the screen.
Pescoli squinted, was reminded of her own kids as little ones, thought about
the baby about to be born and the coming years, first smiles, giggles, tentative
steps, running and swimming, heading off to preschool before she knew it. Just

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like Jeremy and Bianca . . .
The baby kicked and she was reminded that the birth was imminent,
happening soon. In the next week she’d be going on maternity leave. But could
she? While these cases weren’t solved? “You’ll have to wait,” she told her
unborn child as she drove toward the church. She was rewarded with more little
kicks.
Another tough little kid, she thought, as willful as her first two. She’d silently
blamed Jeremy and Bianca’s fathers for all their stubborn, headstrong traits, but
now, if baby number three proved as mulish as her other two, she might have to
take another hard look at herself.
* * *
For some reason, everyone seemed to think that Bianca would know what had
happened to Lindsay. Just because her mom was a cop and investigating the case
didn’t mean she was privy to any new information, yet her friends had all
seemed to elevate her to the position of Information Central, even though she
knew nothing.
“Come on,” Maddie had wheedled in a phone call while Bianca was sorting
through her closet, wondering what was appropriate to wear to a vigil. “You
must know something. Your mom’s all over this.”
“Even if she did know something, she wouldn’t tell me.” Maddie had argued
some more, but Bianca had finally hung up and, after a fruitless search for
something perfect, closed the closet door, figuring jeans, a black top, and zero
jewelry would be good enough.
Then Lara had texted: Where the hell is she? You think maybe this is one of