Once again, Pescoli’s daughter was a no-show.
“I assumed you knew that Bianca wasn’t in school today.” The counselor, Miss Unsel, sat behind a massive desk piled with folders and surrounded by bound copies of college catalogs and directories. The only natural light came from windows mounted high overhead, and the room had a slightly musty smell to it.
“I dropped her off right before the first bell.” Pescoli was terse.
Miss Unsel, with a thick black braid that fell over one shoulder, turned her palms upward. “She wasn’t in her homeroom for attendance. Mr. Cohn marked her absent, as did every other teacher in her block.”
“She hasn’t been here all day. That’s what you’re telling me.”
“Yes.” Peony Unsel was nodding her head in agreement, the end of her braid moving against the bright stripes of the serape she was wearing. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”
“That’s why I’m here. I was hoping you could tell me, well, us, because she was supposed to be here.”
The counselor picked up a pair of heavy-rimmed glasses and studied her computer screen, then typed in another command or two and said, “She’s failing two classes, Spanish and algebra, and just getting by in the others.” Miss Unsel regarded Pescoli over the rims of her glasses. “But she missed two major tests today, one in U.S. history, the other in English.”
Pescoli’s heart sank. “She can make them up?”
The counselor was nodding. “If she has a valid excuse and her teachers agree, I don’t see why not. It’s our mission to help our students become successful adults.” She offered Pescoli a beatific, “Kumbaya” type smile that Pescoli couldn’t help thinking had to be fake.
“Just one more question. Out of curiosity. Was Chris Schultz in school today?” Pescoli asked.
“Let’s see… this is confidential information, you know.”
“Chris is my daughter’s boyfriend.”
“I know. But—”
“I am a cop.”
“I know that, too. But we have rules about the privacy of our students. . ” Miss Unsel turned back to her computer, typed on the keyboard, and sighed. She looked up at Pescoli but didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to.
“Thanks,” Pescoli said, worried sick.
By the time she left the counseling area and walked through the hallways lined with lockers and benches, Pescoli remembered how much she, herself, had hated high school, how often she’d cut class. But she had never let her grades drop, had never jeopardized her future.
And that was what Bianca was doing.
Throwing it all away.
Just like her older brother.
Outside, Pescoli turned her collar to the brittle wind and watched a few kids scurrying to their cars or carrying athletic bags, hurrying toward the gym. Daylight was fading fast. A thick layer of snow had already covered the tracks she’d made when she’d wheeled into the parking lot, and more of the white powder continued to fall.
Climbing behind the wheel, she turned on the engine, and as the wipers pushed a thick white film off her windshield, she tried texting her daughter.
Where R U?
She hit SEND and waited.
Nothing.
“Damn it, Bianca!” she burst out as the phone suddenly rang in her hand. “Pescoli,” she snapped, expecting her daughter’s apologetic voice on the other end.
“Santana,” Nate said, mimicking her tough, no-nonsense tone.
“Oh. Hi. Thought you might be my kid.” But her voice softened a bit.
He chuckled, and she imagined his face, all bladed planes and taut dark skin, evidence of a Native American ancestor somewhere in his family history. And then there were his eyes, deep set and so sharply focused, she sometimes wondered if he could see straight into her soul. Except, she reminded herself, she didn’t believe in any of that romantic garbage.
“I’m not disappointed,” she said. “Just worried. She ditched school again.”
“With the boyfriend.”
“Seems so.”
“Sounds like she needs a father figure.”
“Sounds like she needs a
“He know about this?”
“I haven’t talked to him,” Pescoli admitted as the windshield, now cleared of snow, began to fog.
“You could move in with me,” he said. “All of you.”
Something deep inside of her melted, and she was tempted. “Look, you know how I feel about this. Until the kids are set—”
“Some people might think you’re putting your own life on hold for your kids.”
“That’s what you do if you’re a responsible parent.”
“Is it?”
“Look, I’m not in the mood for any psychological mind games, okay? I just left the counselor’s office, and let’s just say it wasn’t a great experience. Now I have to run down my kid.”
He didn’t say anything, and she closed her eyes for a second. “Santana, don’t do this. Okay? Not now. I’ll call you later.” She hung up before he could argue, even though she knew he wouldn’t. As she drove out of the parking lot, she felt empty inside, as if she were intentionally undermining her one chance at happiness.
Maybe Nate Santana was right.
Maybe she should do what she damned well pleased and let her kids just deal with it.
Then again, maybe not.
Knowing nothing good would come of this, Trace pulled into the lot of Jocelyn Wallis’s apartment building and parked his truck in one of the few vacant visitors’ spaces.
He’d called her twice on the way from the house, but there had been no answer. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the rearview mirror and noticed how haggard he looked. He didn’t like being here; this was a mistake. He knew it deep in his gut. Just as he’d known he should never have gotten involved with her, not in the least. Not only had it been a bad idea for him, but getting hooked up with Jocelyn had been a disaster for Eli, who, though he’d never said it, had to have noticed Jocelyn Wallis’s slight resemblance to his mother…. What was that called? Transference? Close enough.
He glanced around the snow-covered grounds as his windows began to fog with the chill. Lamplight glowed from Jocelyn’s apartment, one in the living area, another in her bedroom, but the shades were drawn.
He walked to the front door and knocked, then waited.
Nothing.
No sound of a television or music coming from her unit. He probably should just call the manager, or Jocelyn’s sister, but decided that since he was here, he’d check her place out himself. She kept a spare key hidden in the beam that supported the roof of her porch, so he used the bench near the front door and hoisted himself upward to a spot where he could see the key hanging on a small nail.
Without a second’s thought Trace snagged the key, hopped down, and after one more try at knocking, let himself in.
A blast of heat hit him full force, but he knew the minute he stepped through the door that he was alone in the apartment. It was just that still.
“Jocelyn!” he called loudly. “Hello?” But he sensed it was useless as he slowly walked from room to room, noting that her purse was on the kitchen counter, her schoolbag, filled with papers and books, on the seat of one of the two bar stools.
