“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 better father figur
e. She’s got Lucky, remember?”
“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—”