Expecting to Die

Don’t panic. She’s done this before.
“But she went to the shoot, right?”
“Yes. Jeremy left her there, told her to call him if she didn’t get a ride home,
but she didn’t. He assumed she came home, but this morning, after I did the
chores at the Long place, I went home, dealt with the dogs, and thought I’d
check in on her before I came back here. Her bed hasn’t been slept in.”
“Then she’s with a friend, or went home with Michelle—she was up there,
right? Maybe Bianca crashed at Lucky’s rather than go home,” Regan said,
coming up with logical explanations though she was already swinging her feet
from the bed.
“I thought so, too. Jeremy and I have already started calling. So far, none of
her friends have seen her since a little after midnight last night. What do you
think you’re doing?”
She was reaching for the handle on the small closet and her clothes. “I’m

---

going to go look for her of course.”
“What about the baby?”
The baby! Tucker! For a brief second, she’d been on automatic, had forgotten.
She felt a jab of remorse and glanced over at him sleeping so peacefully,
unaware of all the dangers in the world, the horrors, the people who would kill
innocent girls. “Right. He’ll . . . he’ll come with me . . .” But as she woke up and
her mind cleared, she knew that was impossible.
“Stay, Regan,” he said, his face serious. “I’ll find her.”
“How?”
A nurse hurried into the room. “Is there something I can help with? Mrs.
Santana?” She was frowning, sensing trouble.
“No,” she said, fear settling deep in her soul. Bianca is all right. Don’t go off
the deep end. Just because other girls . . . oh, dear God. She’s probably with a
friend.
“I’ll start calling. Get Alvarez on it and . . .”
With the nurse still unsure about the situation, standing near the bassinet,
Pescoli snagged her phone from the table near her bed and saw movement in the
doorway. Her heart did a complete nosedive when she recognized her ex-
husband, his face drawn, his eyes red from drink or tears or both. “Luke?” she
said, knowing in an instant that the worst had happened. “What—?”
“Forgive me,” he whispered, his voice rough.
“For . . . ?” Her heart clutched. Oh, God. “Tell me this doesn’t have anything
to do with Bianca?” Her voice cracked and she felt as if the earth were shifting
on its axis, spiraling to a dark place in space where only evil dwelled.
“It’s my fault. It was my idea.”
“What?” she nearly screamed, wanting to know, but dreading the worst.
“I set her up. To be kidnapped.”
“What? Kidnapped?” She felt as if the world had collapsed. “What the hell are
you talking about?”
“Mrs. Santana,” the nurse warned, but Luke was talking again.
“It . . . it was to get Barclay Sphinx’s attention, to make him want to . . .” His
voice faded, his fists balled in frustration. “I was wasted, pissed, upset about . . .
a lot of things but I wanted, thought this was her chance—Bianca’s—to be
something, get a start in Hollywood. So I set it up.”
“You bastard! You stupid, idiotic bastard! Girls are dying!” She launched
herself then, flying off the bed, landing on the floor in her bare feet, ready to tear
him limb from limb. How could he do this? How could he put her daughter, his
daughter, dammit, their daughter at such a risk? “Who? Who has her?” she
screamed, taking her first punch as Santana wrapped an arm around her middle

---

and hauled her off her feet.
“Whoa, honey.” Santana held her tight. “Slow down.”
“I will not! Did you hear what he said? What he did?” Over her husband’s
shoulder, she yelled, “Who the hell has my daughter and where is she, Luke?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know.”
“Who did you contact?”
“Bryant Tophman.”
“Tophman? Why?”
The nurse interjected, “I’m calling security.”
“The hell you are,” Regan said, “I’m a cop. We are security.”
“Not here,” she said and hurried out as Luke glanced out the window to the
morning. His whole face fell. “I knew he’d do it. That Tophman would come
through. He . . . sometimes I get weed from him.”
“You buy drugs from a kid?” she said, incredulous. “Holy crap and then you,
what? Come up with some harebrained scheme to fake kidnap her? Are you
insane?”
“No one was supposed to get hurt.”
“Was?” she cried, coming unglued. “What do you mean? Is Bianca hurt? For
the love of God—”
“No! No! Of course not. I wouldn’t put her in danger.”
“The hell you didn’t.”
“Shhh,” Santana said, then, still holding his wife, glowered at the man who’d
once been her husband. “Slow down and tell us everything you know, you slimy
son of a bitch, or I’ll kill you myself.”
“She’ll be all right,” Luke said. “She has to be all right.”
“Put me down!” Regan demanded, and as Santana dropped her onto the bed,
she reached for her phone. With one thumb, she speed-dialed her partner, who
answered groggily. “Yeah.”
“It’s Pescoli.”
“I know that.”
“Bianca’s missing!”
“What?”
“Luke set her up, had her kidnapped by Bryant Tophman.” She launched into
her story, breaking it down to the bare facts, and when she’d given Alvarez the
bullet points, finished with, “I want a BOLO out on Tophman and Bianca. Get a
search party. Use those damned Big Foot Believers and Jeffe with his drone.
Whatever. Just find my kid,” she cried as the baby, finally disturbed, started to
whimper and cry. “Oh, honey,” she whispered. “You got that, Alvarez?” she said.
“Loud and clear,” her partner responded. “There might be one other wrinkle.”

---

“What?”
“Kywin Bell is still MIA. I think he might be with Tophman.”
Pescoli’s heart turned to stone. The thought of the two muscle-bound thugs,
both of whom probably were already involved in the murder of two girls,
holding her daughter hostage, curdled her blood with fear. “Get them,” she
whispered and hung up.
“You bastard,” she hissed at her ex-husband. “If anything happens to Bianca!”
Her voice broke, and tears of fury and fear stung her eyes. “I swear to you, I will
hold you responsible. And I’ll kill you.”
Santana shook his head. “Nope. I will.” To Luke, he said, “That’s a promise.
Now, get out of here and—”
An obese man in a security uniform strode into the room. “Is there any trouble
here?” he asked in a deep voice just as, two steps behind him, Bianca appeared.
Her clothes were torn, her face filthy, her eyes round as saucers, and next to the
hulking guard, she looked tiny.
Pescoli had never been so glad to see anyone in her life.
“Oh, honey,” Pescoli cried, scrambling to get to her daughter, but Bianca
wasn’t looking at her. Her eyes, narrowed with hatred, were focused on her
father.
“Baby,” he whispered, tears in his eyes.
“Not anymore,” she said, her chin jutting forward, disgust twisting her
features. “I’m not your baby anymore.” And then she spat on the hospital floor.

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