Lisa Jackson - Born To Die

“She didn’t.”

“Then. . well, I’m sorry to have bothered you. If you hear from her, would you have her call Mia?”

“I won’t. But, yeah, sure. At the school?”

“That, too, but if she could call my cell?” Mia sounded seriously worried. “This is just not her usual style. Jocelyn is the most focused, dedicated teacher I know. She just wouldn’t not show up and leave her students high and dry. . It just doesn’t make any sense. Well, thanks.”

He hung up and turned to find Tilly standing in the doorway, not even trying to hide the fact that she’d been eavesdropping. “That was the school again, right? About Jocelyn Wallis?”

“A friend of hers,” he admitted.

Tilly’s expression was dark. “I heard from my niece that she didn’t show up today. It was odd.”

“The niece again,” Ed clarified.

“Her friend said she called me yesterday, but I didn’t get a message.” Trace saw Eli slide farther down in his chair. “Or did I?”

The boy shook his head, but Trace walked to the ancient wall phone that was an answering machine as well. No light was blinking, no message waiting, but when he pressed the button to see who’d called, WALLIS, J. showed on the screen.

“Did you hear a message from Miss Wallis?” he asked his son, but Eli was already shaking his head.

“Uh-uh. . there wasn’t any message.” The boy looked stricken, but Trace believed him. He poked a few buttons, heard nothing, and a cold feeling crawled slowly up his spine. He hung up and found Tilly staring at him.

“Maybe you’d better go check it out,” she suggested. “We’ll stay here with Eli.”

“But I want to go, too,” his son protested.

“What?” Tilly said with mock horror. “And get out of a rematch? No way, Jose ! This is my chance to dominate!” She sent Trace a quick glance, and he got the message.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said and headed out the door, leaving the Zukovs in charge as he strode to his pickup with Sarge at his feet. “Fine. You can come this time.” He opened the driver’s door of the cab, and the dog hopped inside, settling into his favorite spot in the passenger seat.

Trace climbed behind the wheel, started the old Chevy, and wondered what the hell he’d find at Jocelyn Wallis’s apartment.

“Probably nothing,” he told himself, ramming the truck into gear and flipping on the wipers. But the sensation that he was about to step into something bad hung with him as he stared through the windshield to a dusk that promised a darkness he couldn’t comprehend.

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 better father figure. 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—”

“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.