Expecting to Die
Lisa Jackson
OUTSTANDING PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF LISA JACKSON
AFTER SHE’S GONE
“Jackson generates near-constant suspense, weaving together disparate plot turns, directing a large cast of characters, and playing up movie-star egos and showbiz gossip to give the novel a vintage Hollywood feel.”
—Booklist
NEVER DIE ALONE
“Jackson definitely knows how to keep readers riveted.”
—Mystery Scene
0 CLOSE TO HOME
“Close to Home is perfect for readers of Joy Fielding or fans of Mary Higgins Clark.”
—Booklist
TELL ME
“Absolutely tension filled . . . Jackson is on top of her game.”
—Suspense Magazine
YOU DON’T WANT TO KNOW
“Lisa Jackson shows yet again why she is one of the best at romantic suspense. A pure nail biter.”
—Harlan Coben, # 1 New York Times bestselling author
“Shiveringly good suspense!”
—Lisa Gardner, New York Times bestselling author
WITHOUT MERCY
“Her latest whodunit hits all the marks, taking readers on a nail-biting roller-coaster ride.”
—Library Journal
“A juicy creep-a-thon . . . builds to a surprising cliffhanger ending.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
Books by Lisa Jackson
Stand-Alones
SEE HOW SHE DIES
FINAL SCREAM
RUNNING SCARED
WHISPERS
TWICE KISSED
UNSPOKEN
DEEP FREEZE
FATAL BURN
MOST LIKELY TO DIE
WICKED GAME
WICKED LIES
SOMETHING WICKED
WICKED WAYS
SINISTER
WITHOUT MERCY
YOU DON’T WANT
TO KNOW
CLOSE TO HOME
AFTER SHE’S GONE
REVENGE
Anthony Paterno/Cahill
Family Novels
IF SHE ONLY KNEW
ALMOST DEAD
Rick Bentz/Reuben
Montoya Novels
HOT BLOODED
COLD BLOODED
SHIVER
ABSOLUTE FEAR
LOST SOULS
MALICE
DEVIOUS
NEVER DIE ALONE
Pierce Reed/Nikki
Gillette Novels
THE NIGHT BEFORE
THE MORNING AFTER
TELL ME
Selena Alvarez/Regan
Pescoli Novels
LEFT TO DIE
CHOSEN TO DIE
BORN TO DIE
AFRAID TO DIE
READY TO DIE
DESERVES TO DIE
EXPECTING TO DIE
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
LISA JACKSON
Expecting To Die
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2017 by Lisa Jackson LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4201-3607-4
eISBN-13: 978-1-4201-3608-1
eISBN-10: 1-4201-3608-9
VD1_1
Table of Contents
OUTSTANDING PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF LISA JACKSON
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
EPILOGUE
YOU WILL PAY Teaser
OMINOUS Teaser
DANGEROUS BEHAVIOR Teaser
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to Bre Casey of Texas who submitted the winning name for Regan Pescoli and Nate Santana’s baby, who arrives in this book!
CHAPTER 1
She was a dead woman.
He would kill her. Kill her.
She glanced down at the wand from the pregnancy test kit and saw once again that yes, she was pregnant. Then she looked into the mirror over the sink of the public bathroom at the local Walgreens and stared at her reflection. Wide, scared blue eyes peered back at her beneath a fringe of pale bangs.
You. A mother. At seventeen . . . well, eighteen by the time the baby gets here.
Her throat grew thick and she blinked back tears. She couldn’t cry, not now. There was plenty of time for that later. She slapped the tears away, sniffed, then stuffed the wand into her purse and stuffed the packaging deep into the trash bin beneath a wad of paper towels. Not that it mattered, she told herself. No one knew her here. She’d driven to Missoula for the test, taken it here in the restroom, and now had to drive home.
What was she going to do?
Oh. Dear. God.
Cheeks flaming, feeling as if everyone in the aisles of the store knew her secret, she hurried to the front door and nearly tripped over a boy stocking shelves with cans of hair spray and sticks of deodorant in an overflowing metal cart.
“Hey!” he said sharply, and she mumbled a hasty, “Sorry,” on her way past the counter, where pharmacists in lab coats were filling prescriptions and two people waited near the register to pick up their meds.
Through the glass doors and into the August sunshine she flew, then found her way to the car, her mother’s ancient Ford Taurus, and hopped into the sweltering interior. She switched on the ignition, threw the car into reverse, and as she hit the gas, she heard a sharp beep and stood on the brakes, just in time before she nearly clipped the fender of a Honda cutting through the lot. The driver, a brunette woman in sunglasses and a baseball cap, flipped up her middle finger as she swept by.
Destiny didn’t care.
Let the girl flip her off.
She had more important issues to deal with.
Pregnant. You’re pregnant.
Oh. No.
A baby? She couldn’t handle a baby. No way, and it’s not as if the father would be any help. Oh, Lord . . . the father. He would be pissed.
&nbs
p; She took three deep breaths, rolled down the window as the for-crap air conditioner wasn’t working, eased out of the parking space more carefully, managed not to scrape a fender or crumple a bumper, and wended the old Taurus out of the crowded lot.
Maybe she wouldn’t tell him. Just have the baby by herself . . . but how? She couldn’t tell Mom and Dad, and she couldn’t just wish the baby away.
The thought of abortion skated on sharp wheels through her mind, cutting deep. But only for a brief moment and she banished it. No—her cousin had an abortion once and never forgave herself. And then there was Mom. How many times had she admitted that Destiny was not only a happy surprise, but a “miracle baby,” whom she’d christened with her name for that very reason? It had been the only instance Helene Montclaire had ever gotten pregnant in some twenty-odd years of marriage. Despite the fact that she and Destiny’s father, Glenn, had hoped and prayed for a sibling for their only daughter, it had never happened. Helene had even broken down once, tears of anguish filling her eyes with the frustration of not being able to bear another child.
So the thought of terminating this tiny little life was out of the question. There had to be a better option, she decided, as she hit the gas and made it through an amber light, then started south on the highway out of town.
She could give it up for adoption, she thought, squinting against the glare. She fished in the glove box for a pair of sunglasses with one hand while she drove, sliding the Ray-Bans onto her nose. She came up too fast on a hay truck, so she eased off the accelerator.
That’s what she would do, right? Go to a lawyer and set up a . . . oh, crap, that’s what would happen after she had the baby. What about before? When she was hugely pregnant? She wouldn’t be able to hide it for too many months. She was slim and a baby bump would be noticeable and . . .
And there was the baby’s father to deal with.
“Damn it.” He would be a problem.
Or . . . would he? There was a chance . . . oh, dear Lord, no . . . She swallowed back a new fear. Wouldn’t let her mind travel down that dark, insidious path.
If only this were a dream. A really bad nightmare.
After turning on the radio, she played with the stations, heard bits of songs she didn’t recognize, then clicked it off, all the while staring through the bug-splattered windshield, wondering what the hell she was going to do.
She glanced at her worried eyes in the rearview, but wasn’t sure. Shouldn’t she keep it? What was it the reverend had always told her in one of their counseling sessions? When she had a problem? To think about it. Yes. And pray. Talk it over with God.
“You’re stronger than you know, Destiny,” he’d said in his smooth voice, then gently touched her hair, letting his fingers slide down to the back of her neck before withdrawing his hand quickly. As if she’d burned him. Or as if he’d had a sudden attack of conscience. Or as if someone was coming up the stairs to this, his private office, located under the sharply pitched roof near the bell tower. And the stairs had squeaked, announcing the arrival of his wife.
As if she’d known.
Destiny took a breath. She would take his advice, talk things over with God and then decide how to handle the problem. No, not a problem. A baby wasn’t a problem. This was just a situation. A “mere stumbling block in the road of life” was how the reverend would put it.
The fifty miles or so to Grizzly Falls went by in a blur of western Montana farmland, fences, grazing cattle and horses. She drove straight down the valley, turned toward the mountains, and didn’t even remember crossing the bridge that spanned the Grizzly River.
She managed to make it home and avoid too many questions from her mother, who was canning peaches in the kitchen, before holing up in her bedroom. The house was hot and smelled of sugar, and Destiny flopped on her bed and tuned in to her private thoughts, talking with God a bit but still coming up with no answer.
She did arrive at a plan of action, however, so after a dinner of cold ham and potato salad, fresh peaches and cream, she told her folks she was going for a walk.
Her mother seemed worried, but didn’t argue, just fanned herself with a leaflet the Jehovah’s Witnesses had dropped by earlier in the week and sat in “her” recliner. Destiny’s father was already tuned in to the television, the footrest of his La-Z-Boy already elevated, his reading glasses on the tip of his nose, newspapers spread on the table next to his chair and spilling onto the sculpted carpet Mom had picked out a year or so after Destiny had been born.
Another typical night at the Montclaire home.
Except that their only daughter was, as near as she could figure, about eight weeks pregnant. She wondered if there was some kind of app on her phone that would tell her precisely when she’d gotten pregnant.
That would help a lot.
By the time she set out, her parents barely looked up. The house was surrounded by the fields of neighboring spreads, and she set out across the Jones’s south pasture. Until a few weeks earlier, the fenced acres had been covered with lush hay, green stalks that had shimmered silver in the breeze, but the crop had been harvested. Now, she trod across the sun-bleached stubble that remained.
At the far side of the field, she slipped through the sagging barbed wire, then headed into the woods. Familiar woods, a place she’d always thought of as a sanctuary. In the shade, the temperature dropped a bit, but the air was still warm. Dry. Smelling of pine and dust.
Out of sight of the windows of her parents’ home, she studied the screen on her cell phone, sent out three texts, and called Donny.
As she waited for him to pick up, she listened to the sounds of the forest, the whisper of pine branches overhead, the flutter of birds amidst the trees, the soft chortles and chirps they emitted a balm to her fevered thoughts.
No answer. She didn’t leave a voice message. Couldn’t.
She glanced at the face of her phone and saw no quick responses to her texts.
Of course he was mad at her.
He was always mad lately.
She texted Donny next and told him she was heading to “their” spot up near the reservoir. She asked him to meet her or text her, then headed up the hiking trail that led over the hill. The trail was steep, a rigorous climb that took over twenty minutes, and she was sweating by the time she wound up the switchbacks to the ridge. From there, it was a quick climb down. She paused. Caught her breath. Gathered her courage. Noticed how dark the woods had become.
The sun had settled over the western mountains, and long shadows were fingering through the stands of pine, hemlock, and aspen. The birds had quieted, and there were a few bats swooping overhead. The silence was strange and . . .
Snap!
She turned at the sound of a twig breaking.
The hairs on the back of her nape lifted.
Nothing. It’s nothing!
She squinted, her gaze racing from one thicket to the next, but nothing moved, no animal showed itself. Not even a rabbit or racoon stirred in the thickening umbra, at least none she could see.
Just your imagination.
You’re freaked, that’s it.
And yet suddenly she felt something wasn’t quite right in this all-too-still forest, this place where she’d come for solace.
She bit her lip as she remembered every damned zombie, werewolf, and vampire movie on TV she’d ever watched about a girl alone in the wilderness.
Stop it!
Making one last sweep of the area and seeing nothing out of place, she continued, but goose bumps raised on the back of her arms, and she felt as if hidden eyes were following her every move.
It’s nothing.
She kept telling herself that over and over, but her willing mind went to images of snarling cougars and black bears, maybe wolves, too. Hadn’t they been reintroduced or something? Hadn’t she heard about that in school or something? And what about bobcats and . . . oh, God, snakes. Rattlers. Hadn’t her father told her they hunted at night? Or was she wrong?
Oh. Shit.
Relax. You know this place. You’ve never encountered anything scarier than a porcupine waddling through the brush, right?
Nerves tight as bowstrings, she kept moving, deeper into the woods, her ears straining, her pulse pounding. She heard nothing more, no footfalls, no rustling through the undergrowth, no heavy breathing, but still she felt those eyes upon her.
As darkness encroached, she chanced the flashlight app on her cell phone to make certain she was sticking to the trail. Of course she was almost out of battery life, and she didn’t want anyone or anything to see her anyway, so she used the light sparingly as she made her way to the canyon floor.
She heard and smelled the creek before she saw it, a dark ribbon slicing through the woods. The path she was following downhill bled into a dusty trail that ran along the banks of the creek, which serpentined through this part of the canyon floor. When she reached the intersection, she turned upstream, walking quickly, hearing the water gurgle and splash over stones before it eddied in deeper pools, imagining the sound of footsteps following behind, though every time she stopped suddenly, she heard nothing.
She let out her breath.
You’re an idiot. An idiot who has psyched herself out. This is all just because you’re nervous, you know. No one is following you. No bloodthirsty creature is hunting you. No zombies are walking stiff-legged over this rough terrain. No, Destiny, the only freak out here tonight is you . . . pregnant, stupid you.
So much for a mental pep talk, she thought as she continued. Through sparse pine and hemlock thickets, she made her way to the spot he’d agreed to meet her, where the trees gave way to a parking area, rarely used any longer, the gravel that had once covered the lot now choked with dry weeds.
