Willing to Die Read online

  SOMEONE’S WATCHING

  Pescoli turned over in bed and she was instantly awake.

  Something was wrong.

  She could feel it in her bones.

  She’d been back home less than two days and the feeling was back, that she was being watched by hidden eyes, that something bad was going down. Nothing in the last twenty-four hours had given her any fuel to feed this paranoid feeling, not even the ongoing investigation into her sister’s death.

  She hated all the self-examination and worry that had edged into her life. It had started with her pregnancy. Brindel’s murder had only exacerbated it.

  She threw back the covers and walked naked to the French doors, where, as she had hundreds of times before, she stared across the icy surface of the lake and then looked up to the black sky where no stars were visible, cloud cover erasing their shine and hiding the moon.

  There is nothing out there, Pescoli. Get over yourself. Even the bears have the good sense to hibernate for the winter.

  But it wasn’t the bears or wolves or mountain lions that roamed the forests around her home that caused the little tingle of apprehension to crawl up her spine. No, it was something unknown, something insidious and evil that she felt observing her . . .

  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

  YOU WILL PAY

  OMINOUS

  RUTHLESS

  ONE LAST BREATH

  LIAR, LIAR

  PARANOID

  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

  WILLING TO DIE

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  LISA JACKSON

  WILLING TO DIE

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  SOMEONE’S WATCHING

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Teaser chapter

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 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-13: 978-1-4201-3609-8

  ISBN-10: 1-4201-3609-7

  ISBN: 978-1-4201-3609-8

  Prologue

  Near San Francisco, California

  July Fourth

  Dead.

  Her son was dead!

  Cold to the bone despite the summer’s heat, she couldn’t breathe, had to gasp for air.

  Her throat clogged with grief, pain, and a deep, intense fury.

  Standing alone in this cemetery where gravestones stood in sentry-like rows, she clenched her fists and wanted to rail to the heavens where, across the night sky, fireworks burst in thunderous booms and great sprays of light.

  The demons that had tormented her mind hadn’t lied.

  As bitter as the harshest Montana winter, desperation cut through her heart. Blinking against tears, she dragged her gaze from the inscription on the small marble stone at her feet.

  A low-lying fog was rolling in, swallowing the lights of the city situated on the far shore of the bay. The iconic Golden Gate was partially obscured, only the bridge’s tall towers knifing through the fog to a black sky glittering with stars, a backdrop to the fireworks. She watched another shooting star rise high, streaks of fiery glitter bursting, then fizzling before her eyes. For a few awe-inspiring seconds, the pyrotechnics bedazzled, then faded, their short life spans over in quick, brilliant bursts. Over almost before they’d begun.

  Like her son’s brief life.

  Her heart tugged so painfully she fell to her knees. She’d known this was possible, perhaps even probable, that he’d died, but throughout these past lonely years, she’d held out a glimmer of hope that he’d survived, that they would be reunited, that she would feel the warmth of his arms around her neck as she held him close. “Oh, baby,” she whispered.

  Once again she turned her attention to the small gravestone, a tiny marker in a sea of larger, more elaborate tombstones. In various shapes and sizes, some tall, some ornately carved, others more plain, the headstones stood unmoving, hulking along the slope that curved downward to the city and the dark, black waters of the bay.

  Why?

  Oh, God, why?

  Closing her eyes, she drew in several deep breaths.

  Don’t question. It is what it is.

  More importantly: What are you going to do about it?

  Jaw clenched, she thought of those who had wronged her.

  Those who had used her.

  Those who had abused her.

  Those who had taken out their animosity against her on the innocence of her child.

  Still on her knees, she reached forward and traced the dates inscribed on the frigid stone with the tips of her
fingers. Barely four years from date of birth to date of death.

  Her heart cracked with the pain. “Oh, honey,” she murmured, her throat catching as thoughts of that unlikely birth swirled in her brain. The agony of labor, the fear of the unknown, the rush in her blood at hearing the newborn’s cry, and then the emptiness as her son was stolen from her, taken from that isolated delivery room. She’d heard the whispers in the hospital.

  “. . . deeply disturbed.”

  “. . . mentally unstable.”

  “. . . severe psychosis.”

  All spoken in hushed tones. As if she couldn’t hear.

  And now this.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and brought to mind the manipulators who had made the decisions, those who had determined that she was “unable,” or “unwilling,” or “incapable.” More words she wasn’t supposed to hear. And then there was the harshest of all: “unfit.” Her teeth gnashed as she remembered the callousness with which that word was tossed about. How would they know? Yes, she’d been unstable—she knew that—though the word “insanity,” which she’d heard throughout her life, surely was extreme. She wasn’t “insane,” and never had been.

  Especially not tonight.

  No, as the rockets screamed into the sky, blooming in wild explosions of color and light, she’d never felt more sane. She’d spent so much time searching for her son only to find him buried here—that bit of hope she’d felt at the thought of reconnecting with him, of seeing him, of explaining to him and holding him . . . that tiny flame of expectation was now dead. Extinguished. And in its place rose a new emotion, raw and acrid.

  Vengeance.

  Swallowing the lump in her throat, she gazed at the small grave marker again and now, dry-eyed, thought of what lay ahead. “They’ll pay,” she promised her child, hoping that he would somehow know. Her fingers twisted in the drying grass of the hillside, the long blades and dandelions that were tucked close to the marker and had escaped the gardener’s mower clutched in her fingers. “Every last one of them. I will hunt them down and, I promise you, they will pay.” In her mind’s eye she saw them all. As she pushed herself upright, a series of smaller fireworks exploded over the bay, flashes of kaleidoscopic colors disappearing in fading fingers until the darkness was unbroken again.

  She knew who they were, those who had betrayed her.

  She knew where they lived.

  She also knew she had the element of surprise on her side.

  And she would destroy them all.

  Tossing the dried weeds from her fingers, she dusted her hands.

  She had a mission.

  As she headed down the hill, stepping carefully between the marble and granite sentinels of the dead, she plotted just how to wreak her vengeance against them.

  A sense of cold satisfaction displaced her desperation.

  She turned at the locked gate, then climbed atop the wrought-iron fence and looked back over her shoulder. Spying the tiny gravestone, she whispered, “I love you,” and waited for an answer that didn’t come.

  Armed with her new purpose, she hopped lithely to the ground, shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket, and felt the cold reassurance of the Beretta Pico, a small .380. Jaw set, she strode through the darkness, avoiding streetlights as the explosions burst overhead.

  No one would stop her now.

  No one would dare.

  Chapter 1

  San Francisco, California

  Six Months Later

  Brindel wanted a divorce.

  Correction: She needed a divorce.

  From Paul Latham . . . make that Doctor Paul Latham. He always did.

  Self-important bastard.

  Glancing out the bathroom window to the night beyond, the lights of the city pinpoints, the view even from this room stunning, she was ready to give it all up. But of course, Paul wouldn’t go down without a fight. Not that it was about her or love. She actually laughed at that ridiculous thought, then took a sip from her second—or was it her third?—glass of wine. Didn’t matter. She finished the last drop, considered pouring another, then decided against it, leaving the glass on the marble counter. Whatever love she and Paul had shared nearly fifteen years before had shriveled and died long ago, like a worm on a hot sidewalk. All that was left was a hard, heartless shell of their marriage. No, the reason he would fight her was that he wasn’t a man who could lose. Not in his life, not in his marriage, not in his job, and especially not to her.

  She shook her head. She’d been such a fool. She’d suspected early on, and discovered a few years into the marriage, that he’d expected her to raise his two sons, Macon and Seth. Which she had. Both disgustingly like their father.

  Angrily she swiped off her makeup, scrubbing carefully, though she noticed a few irritating and stubborn lines on her face that needed a good shot of Botox. Afterward, she massaged cream into her skin, then brushed her hair until it gleamed. It now was blonder than her natural shade and streaked to hide any hint of gray, then cut in the most fashionable style money could buy, perfect layers framing her face to fall softly to her shoulders.

  A glimpse of her closet showed off racks of shoes—heels, pumps, sandals, running shoes, a pair for every occasion displayed on lighted shelves that were slightly elevated. Neat rows. Each pair worth a small fortune.

  How had she thought footwear costing thousands was worth the price of this hollow marriage? Along with the shoes, deeper into the wide walk-in were racks and racks of dresses, slacks, suits, sweaters, you name it, all designer, all expensive, all hung neatly, the gowns encased in plastic to protect them, purses, too. From the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of the white gown she’d worn at her wedding—well, her second wedding if anyone was counting—and she saw the sparkle of beads, the cut of French lace, and cringed inwardly as she remembered wearing that gown and feeling as if her life, finally, had turned a favorable corner as she’d swept down the aisle to meet her handsome, successful groom. Despite his flashes of anger while engaged, his need to dominate, the warning knell from her sisters, she’d been determined to give herself and her toddler daughter a new, “perfect” life.

  She’d had no idea how wrong she would be.

  And now . . . now she needed to do something about it. Before it was too late. As it was, she was already over forty, for God’s sake, her kid nearly grown. She stepped out of her robe and let it puddle on the floor. Turning sideways to the full-length mirror, she noted that her belly was flat and hard, her breasts high with the help of surgery and enhancements, her nipples pert and dark, her legs long and lean, even showing a bit of muscle, her posture erect. She was still very attractive, could compete with women ten, maybe even twelve years younger than she . . . well, maybe. If she had to. Not that she was looking for a new man. No way. At least not until she was single. She didn’t want the hint of impropriety on her part. She’d already spoken to one of the best lawyers in town; she just hadn’t pulled the trigger and filed for divorce yet.

  “Tomorrow,” Brindel said, mouthing the words as if her husband, who was in the next suite, could hear her.

  More than slightly buzzy, she finally took out her contacts and finished getting ready for bed, which was basically undressing to slip between the soft sheets completely naked, a practice her husband had once found exciting, then disgusting, then had totally ignored. That had been before the remodel of the second floor into two master suites. His and hers. It had seemed perfect at the time, but now was claustrophobic. Silk wallpaper, coved ceilings, crystal chandelier, huge four-poster bed and private bathroom with its grand walk-in closet, all part and parcel of her jail cell.

  And Brindel needed freedom.

  More than anything else.

  She’d only stayed as long as she had because of her daughter . . . and now . . . well . . .

  She slid beneath the thick duvet, felt the polished cotton smooth against her skin, and turned off the bedside lamp. Her appointment was at nine, when she was certain her husband would be in th
e midst of his rounds at the hospital attached to the medical school, a short walk through the park from this house. She’d tell her attorney to file the papers and then let the chips fall where they may.

  Smiling at the thought that she was finally doing something, well, actually the one thing he would abhor, she burrowed under the covers and drifted away, her dreams lulling her only to be interrupted by . . . what? The sound of footsteps? Oh, God, surely Paul wouldn’t try to come into her room and slide into her bed.... Physically shuddering at the prospect, she opened an eye to darkness, the room lit only by the glow of the bedside clock.

  Was that breathing she heard? Soft and low over the pounding of her racing heart?

  She swallowed back her fear and stared, eyes narrowing, fingers curling at the edge of the duvet.

  For a second she thought she saw movement—a shadow crossing in front of the armoire—but realized it was the mirror mounted over the antique, reflecting the sway of branches from the window on the opposite wall.

  Don’t be neurotic. You have one more night and then you start the fight for your freedom . . . and half of Paul’s estate. He owes it to you for giving him almost fifteen of your best years. In her mind she calculated what she might receive, less attorney’s fees. Three million? Maybe four? She’d earned every penny of it being married to the jerk-wad.

  And it would be enough to last her the rest of her life.

  Slightly calmer, she still listened for any sound that he might be stealthily walking down the hallway to her bedroom door, but she heard nothing . . . all her imagination. Her nerves were strung tight, that was it. Because of her meeting in the morning. She was alone. Safe. In her own damned bedroom. Closing her eyes again, she started to breathe easier.

  And there it was.

  The whisper-soft scrape of a footstep. Then another.

  And a new smell. Musky and male and . . .