Expecting to Die

by Lisa Jackson

  Pescoli just wished she would disappear.

  It was her daughter who concerned her. Bianca had lost interest in school, this, her senior year of high school. Once driven, she now seemed lost. Fortunately, she’d agreed to see a psychologist, but her fun-loving, all-about-me spoiled teenager had disappeared, become a shell of herself, spent her time reading or online. Pescoli couldn’t remember the last time Bianca had gone out or even bothered putting on lipstick. Yeah, she was lost.

  She needed a mother. Full-time. As did Tucker.

  What to do?

  Stay home. Be a full-time mother. At least for a while. Until Bianca finds herself. Until Tucker is old enough to enjoy preschool.

  Her thoughts drifted back to the Good Feelings Preschool, when Bianca was a toddler. All those innocent babies, all now nearly grown, some now dead, others in prison, still others, like Bianca, forever scarred.

  Was that what life was? A series of childhood scars that molded a person into adulthood?

  The baby gurgled and opened his eyes to stare up at her with his dark Santana eyes. “You’re an angel,” she told him as she picked him up and walked him onto the deck. Autumn was in the air, the night crisp, the moon rising. This, living here, was a little slice of heaven. A perfect place to raise a family.

  And yet . . . as she gazed across the water, watching the breeze ruffle the surface, she imagined that there was danger lurking in the shadows, a malevolent presence that threatened their peace.

  You’re being paranoid.

  Turning to go inside, she spied her husband walking into the bedroom. Her heart swelled at the sight of him. Yeah, he could still turn her inside out. She slipped through the French doors and walked into his embrace.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Never better.”

  His smile was familiar, a crooked slash of white against dark skin that caused her heart to skip a beat. He kissed her, then, just a brush of his lips over hers, then did the same to the crown of his son’s head.

  Yeah, life here was good. Secure. Regan Pescoli had never been happier, but when she turned back to the doors and cast one final glance to the darkness beyond, she felt a tiny chill, like an icy needle pricking the edge of her heart.

  Tonight, she locked the door.

  Dear Reader,

  I hope you liked Expecting to Die! I’ve had a lot of fun with the series set in Grizzly Falls, Montana! Detectives Alvarez and Pescoli are a couple of my favorite characters. They, along with their families and the citizens of the community continue to come up with stories for me to write, including the next Willing to Die in which Pescoli is still wrestling with her decision of retiring from the force and staying home with her newborn. What will she do? Willing to Die is scheduled to be published sometime in 2018.

  Meanwhile as I write Willing to Die, I’ll have some other books you might enjoy. You Will Pay is my next hardcover and will be on the shelves at the end of May. An excerpt for this book is on the following pages, as is an excerpt for Dangerous Behavior, my sister Nancy Bush’s next novel which goes on sale at the end of April. Also look for Ominous, a book written by Nancy Bush, Rosalind Noonan and me and is a sequel to Sinister. It will be out this August.

  You Will Pay is a stand-alone thriller set in a co-ed camp along the forested shores of Cape Horseshoe on the Oregon Coast. Twenty years earlier, a girl disappeared, another was presumed murdered and everyone associated with the camp was considered a suspect. The homicide was never solved, but now, when all of the kids who’d attended years ago are adults, a body is discovered and as a lone detective tries to solve the crime, he has to hide his own involvement and disguise his own passions for some of the girls, now women, who have returned to the scene of the crime at his behest, unknowing that the terror of the past has resumed.

  Dangerous Behavior is a thriller played upon the seemingly tranquil backwater bay of a cozy little Oregon town. But the calm is only a fragile veneer that covers a turbulent and dangerous threat to the families who reside along that bucolic waterway. An evil tides has come to their community, unearthing all their secrets and leaving a destructive wake where no one will be safe again.

  Ominous takes place in Prairie Creek, Wyoming and is the story of three girls who lose their innocence in a seemingly innocent midnight swim. Who would think they were being watched, even stalked? On that fateful night, the girls are changed forever and their lives shattered, their friendship destroyed. Years later, as adults, they all return to Prairie Creek to repair their lives and with danger around every corner, finally unmask the hideous truth.

  I think you’ll like these three novels!

  To keep up with my releases and appearances, please go to my website at www.lisajackson.com. I’ll keep everyone informed about upcoming books and current releases. To find out more about my life as a writer, anecdotes about the books, how I deal with three stubborn but loveable little dogs and my life in general, just join the conversation at my Facebook page, Lisa Jackson fans.

  Thanks for all of your comments, wishes and general support. I truly love writing these books!

  Turn the page for the excerpts and always, keep reading!

  Lisa

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  20 Years Ago

  Camp Horseshoe, Oregon

  They were all bitches. Every last one of them. Why she’d come out tonight and agreed to this sickening plan, Monica didn’t know. And now she was ready to back out, to leave them waiting.

  She jogged through the darkness, her sneakers squishing along the sandy path that ran through the looming dark fir trees and twisted pines, misshapen from years of abuse by the battering winds. The roar of the surf was in her ears, the smell of the sea in her nostrils, the sheer darkness broken by the opalescence of a full moon rising above a fog bank laying out to sea. And there was more, the hint of malevolence like the smell of wood smoke from a faraway forest fire, wafting thinly in the air.

  Malevolence? No way. That’s just your guilt eating at you.

  Setting her jaw, beginning to sweat, she headed directly to the cavern where the others—the bitches—were probably already waiting. At the thought of her “friends” the acid in her stomach curdled. She didn’t really like any of them, not athletic and sharp-tongued Bernadette and especially not Bernie’s pathetic whiny little sister, Annette who always purported herself to be a “good girl,” one who never did anything wrong. Ha! In truth Annette wasn’t much more than a tattletale, always hoping to get the others into trouble. Well, this time, she wouldn’t be talking or telling tales, this time Little Nettie was in it up to her self-righteous eyeballs.

  And so are you, that horrid, nagging voice that had been her companion for all of her eighteen years reminded her. Up to your eyeballs and beyond.

  Starting to sweat despite the cool marine air whipping through the forest, she kept running up the steep incline, all the while batting away spider webs and the long-needles of the pines.

  Her legs were beginning to hurt, her stomach cramping as she crested the hill and the trees broke away. Here, the path split and she knew she should turn down hill, toward the cavern where they would be waiting, that was her plan. Right? Not only Bernadette and her wimp of a sister, but also doe-eyed, self-righteous Sosi and, the conniving drama queen, Jo-Beth. Ugh! Jo-Beth might just be the worst of the sorry lot, a girl Monica would never have chosen as a friend, but now . . . Now...

  Her mouth went dry and her stomach twisted at the thought that now she and the others were not just a group of teens who’d been tossed together as camp counselors, but now were so much more, inextricably bound together, she with these bitches, all of whom have so much more in life than she does. Because of what they had done, what they all had done.

  You’re as guilty as the others.

  Ell
e is missing and it’s your fault.

  And, admit it, deep in your heart, you know she’s dead.

  “No! Crap! Oh, shut up!” she hissed, her voice drowned by the surf as she noticed the fog rolling steadily inland, wispy fingers crawling along the underbrush.

  Monica bit her lip, didn’t want to think of the horrid deed that ensured for the rest of their lives, she and these girls she despised would be forever chained together by the secrets and lies they’d created.

  “Shit,” she whispered and continued along the ridge of this wind-sculpted dune to an area where the trail wound slightly downward in a ragged loop toward the camp. She was more careful, her eyes scouring the darkness when she spied the boulder that marked the end of another pathway, now overgrown, once used and now nearly forgotten.

  Here, the beach grass grew heavy between the twisted trunks while salal grew in towering clumps, encroaching on the trail. Brambles and berry vines clutched at her bare legs, scratching and scraping the skin, while, as she ran, small, dry pine cones crunched beneath the soles of her running shoes. To ensure that she was on the right path, she pulled a small flashlight from her pocket, risked shining the beam on the ground, then tucked it away and moved forward.

  Inside her mind, the clock was ticking, sand flowing quickly in the hour glass. The others—the bitches—were probably even now, wondering if she were going to show, if something had happened to her, or if she were just standing them up.

  Too bad. She had something she has to do, something important. Something . . . life changing. She just had to—

  “Ouch!” She stepped into some kind of animal hole in the path and twisted her ankle, losing her balance and tumbling forward, going down on all fours. “Damn it all to hell!” she cried, pain throbbing in the wrenched joint. Just what she needed, a damned sprained or broken ankle.

  Sitting on the path, she risked the light again, seeing she’d scraped her knee on a protruding rock. She rubbed the ankle, massaging away the pain as she thought of Tyler. Would he be waiting for her? She let out her breath in a heavy sigh. She’d fallen for him. So hard. So fast. With such wild abandon that she’d been mad with lust for him and hadn’t cared about the fact that he wasn’t exactly available.

  Oh, fuck it. That was all in the past.

  Wincing, she tried moving her ankle, decided it wasn’t broken nor severely sprained, just tweaked, so she gingerly climbed to her feet and turned off the flashlight. She didn’t have time for any distractions or delays. Starting out again, she was more careful, still jogging but cognizant of the rocks and roots that could trip her, and more aware of the other dips and valleys in the trail.

  Tyler.

  Would he be waiting?

  After the last time they’d met, when she’d given him the news and he’d been stunned, she half-expected he wouldn’t show. Absently she rubbed her flat abdomen and thought about what lay within, beneath the layers of skin and muscle. Tears threatened her eyes, but she steadfastly pushed them back as the grass tickled her calves and she nearly tripped on a fallen log, but somehow managed to leap across it and land softly on the far side.

  She felt something inside her shift, but she could do nothing about it. Yes, she’d been pregnant, had even given Tyler the news less than two weeks earlier, but now everything had changed. She’d been spotting and cramping and . . . a deep sadness yawned within her. She hadn’t planned on getting pregnant. No! Never! But it had happened. And though she hadn’t thought she’d wanted a baby—Oh, God she was much too young to raise a child—she was disappointed, her silly, romantic fantasies about a life with Tyler—destroyed. Now, they both could go onto college and . . . and Tyler could marry Jo-Beth, the girl to whom he was engaged. No, make that the bitch to whom he was engaged.

  At that thought, Monica winced.

  She’d been a fool. A silly, lovesick fool.

  Carrying on, she rounded a final corner and spied a clearing, or what once had been a clearing but was now filled with weeds and brush that caught in the moonlight.

  Then she saw it.

  The dilapidated structure—once a chapel and now . . . now a trysting spot, the place where she’d met Tyler.

  Trysting spot? Seriously? Are you that deluded? You mean fucking place, don’t you? Because that’s what it is, a nearly decrepit building that’s rotting away, a hideout where you could fuck Tyler behind his fiancé’s back. You came to this place to screw his brains out and possibly or even probably you knew you might get pregnant, even secretly hoped that it would be so. Right? In the back of your mind, you knew this might happen. Trysting spot? Oh my God. Get a grip, Monica. Quit romanticizing it. What’s wrong with you? Call it what it is, for crying out loud!

  Would he be inside?

  Waiting?

  Thump!

  She jumped at the sound. What was that? Was someone out here? Something? A wild beast? What? Deer? Elk? Cougar? Maybe just a skunk or . . . Heart thudding, she strained to hear, listened closely but heard nothing over the rush of the wind and the ever-constant pounding of the surf. She stared into the woods, the dark circle of twisted trunks and spreading branches that ringed the space in front of the chapel. For that’s what it had been years before, half a century ago, before the newer structure had been built closer to the other buildings of the campground.

  Holding her breath, searching the darkness, she saw no one. Nothing. Whatever it had been was either gone, skulking off into the woods or silently watching and waiting. It’s nothing. Just your imagination. Now, get on with it.

  Her skin was still prickling, goose bumps rising as she skirted the open area, then swallowing hard, her nerves stretched to the breaking point, she sprinted across a stretch of silvery dry dune grass to the sagging porch. Her shoes scraped against the sandy boards and as she tried one of the double doors, it fell open, luring her into the even darker interior.

  “Tyler?” she whispered.

  No response.

  She pulled the door shut behind her.

  As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw the cracked, tall window of stained glass. The curved top of the panes were tucked high, under the rafters but the window itself stretched nearly to the floor. A few of the panes were missing, but for the most part, the window was intact and now there was enough to moonlight slanting through the colored panes of a weeping Mary. It was too dark to see the Madonna’s features tonight, but Monica knew them from memory, from the lazy afternoons or early twilight hours when she’d met Tyler here.

  “Ty?” she called again, moving through the broken pews and glancing at the altar, still intact, though listing a little. “Are you here?” What a stupid question. Obviously he was here if he could answer.

  Nothing, but the whistle of the wind.

  Did he stand her up?

  Or was he playing with her? Hiding in the shadows?

  “If this is a game, it isn’t funny,” she said and felt as if she wasn’t alone. Turning slightly, she thought she caught a glimpse of a shadow, a darkness skittering across the window. Oh. Jesus.

  Her heart nearly stopped. “Ty?” she whispered again and licked her lips. She made her way up the aisle between the pews, just like she would if she were a blushing bride on the way to the altar, to pledge her life, her love to her groom. In her mind’s eye the man waiting near the preacher would be Tyler. Of course. But now, in this dark, dilapidated chapel, her fantasy was crushed, as dead as the life she’d once been carrying. Her throat grew thick with tears, but she shrugged off the case of the blues over what might-have-been. “I’m not kidding,” she said, stepping nearer the altar. “If you’re here, we need to talk. I have to tell you that—”

  The toe of her running shoe hit something and she nearly stumbled, catching herself by grabbing the back of a rotting bench. “What the—?” The rest of the aisle had been clear but . . . She peered down in the darkness, but was unable to see. “Ty?”

  Nothing.

  She pulled out her flashlight again and risked a quick bit of illu
mination. Shining the beam at her feet, she saw that she’d nearly tripped over a foot. A bare foot. A man’s foot.

  She let out a gasp. “Oh, God!”

  Heart hammering, she ran the beam of the light up a tanned calf and thigh, past the man’s limp dick and upward across a hairy chest and neck to Ty’s face, his blue eyes fixed as if staring at the rotting ceiling over the Madonna.

  “Noooo!” she squealed, dropping the flashlight, her stomach lurching. “No, no . . . oh, God, no!” Hyperventilating, her gaze fastened to the still form, she backed up, her rubbery legs threatening to buckle.

  Get a hold of yourself. He may not be dead. You have to check! Don’t be a coward.

  But he was gone, she knew it, her fears confirmed by the dark red stain spreading beneath him. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.

  Shaking, she forced herself forward, inching toward his beautiful body. “Ty,” she whispered. “Ty . . .” She felt to the uneven floorboards and eased between the pews, feeling his flesh, cool to her touch, no response. This wasn’t happening! This couldn’t be happening! Not to Ty. It had to be a dream! It had to! She ran her fingers, along his chest. “Oh, God, Ty, please, please . . .” Forcing her head to his chin, her ear to his nose, listening for any sign of breath, she squeezed her eyes shut, her scraped knee wet with his still-warm blood.

  Was there just the hint of a rasp, just a bit of air flowing? Please, God . . . please!

  “Ty,” she said next to his lips, but there was no response. Nothing. And the air she’d thought she’d heard escaping from his lungs ceased to exist. “Come on. Come on.” The blood was flowing slowly, so surely his heart was still pumping! Or running because of gravity on the listing floor. “Ty, it’s me, Monica!” She placed her fingers at his neck, searching for any sign of pulse, but he lay unmoving, not even the whisper of a beat beneath her fingertips. “I’m so, so sorry,” she murmured and tears welled in her eyes.