Solitude Creek

O’Neil took the boy’s phone and ran the camera app. He scrolled through until he found a video. It was shaking but it clearly showed Do

‘And the other dares? The ones Do

She stared at the video. In a quiet voiceover: ‘I Wes Swenson am personally observing Donald Verso place graffiti on the Baptist New World Church …’

O’Neil continued, ‘A month or so ago a friend of Wes – I think his name was Rashiv – had a run-in with Do

Dance told him, ‘That’s right. Rashiv and Wes were friends. Then Wes just stopped seeing him. I don’t know what happened.’

‘Do

‘Yes. Big.’

‘He was the muscle in the crew. He’d do anything Do

‘He even set it up with Rashiv to meet “accidentally” and Wes’d pretend to steal a comic or something from him, threaten to hurt him. Do

‘And today? At Goldschmidt’s?’

‘Wes’d noticed Do

Dance whispered, ‘Me. That was me.’

O’Neil said only, ‘I know.’ He continued, ‘Wes couldn’t give himself away to Do

Dance closed her eyes and her head dipped. ‘He saved me. Maybe saved my life.’

‘Then tonight he caught a glimpse of something in Do

‘Why didn’t he just report it in the first place? A month ago? Why play undercover?’

O’Neil’s eyes swept her desk. ‘I don’t know. Maybe to make you proud of him.’

‘I am.’

But even as Kathryn Dance said those words she wondered, Does he know it? Really know it?

Or, Dance suddenly thought of O’Neil, to make you proud of him.

Silence filled the room. Dance was thinking of the conversation she would have to have with the boy. Whatever the good motives, there were some minefields here. Dance had amassed capital in Monterey County with the prosecutor’s office; she’d have to see how much, and how negotiable it was. And, she thought too, Do

Then she looked at O’Neil, to see that his expression and posture had changed dramatically. No kinesic subtlety here.

And everything she saw set off alarms within Kathryn Dance. She thought: As if what Michael just told me about Wes weren’t enough. What was coming next?

He said, ‘Look, as if what I just told you wasn’t enough …’

Any other time she might have smiled; now her heart was racing.

‘There’s something else.’ He glanced back to her door. Still shut.

‘I can see that. What’s it about?’

‘Okay, it’s about … I guess you could say, us.’

Dance’s head rose and dipped slightly, a nod being one of the most ambiguous of gestures. It was often a defensive move, meaning: I need to buy some time and toughen up the heart.

Because she knew what was coming next. Michael and A

Why else would A

‘So, here’s the thing.’

Michael O’Neil’s eyes were fixed on a thoroughly ugly yellow ceramic cat that Maggie had squeezed together in first grade.

Dance’s eyes were unwaveringly on his.

CHAPTER 92

Her house beckoned.

The Victorian structure glowed, thanks to subdued sconces near the door and, from inside, light paled to old bone by the curtains. Dots of white Christmas lights around an occasional window or clustering on a plant added to the ambience of magic. The illumination was lopsided but no matter: Dance had never felt the need to be symmetrical.

Kathryn Dance shut off the SUV’s engine but remained where she was, fingers enwrapping the wheel tightly. They trembled.

Wes …

Playing cop, Wes.

Lord, Lord … He might’ve been killed by Goldschmidt. A Beretta shotgun, O’Neil had reported. Those weapons are works of art, yes, but their purpose is to kill. And they do such a very fine job of it.

Releasing the wheel finally. Her palms cooled from the departing sweat.

Rehearsing what she’d say to her son. It was going to be a lengthy discussion.

Then, of course, her thoughts returned to what Michael O’Neil had said.

‘Look, as if what I just told you wasn’t enough …’

Well, isn’t that always the case? The conversations you don’t want to have, can’t have, refuse to have … they happen on their own, and usually at the worst possible moments. She was still nearly paralyzed with dismay. A dozen slow breaths.

Dance finally now climbed out of the Pathfinder and walked onto the porch, key out.

She didn’t need to do any unlatching, however. The door opened and Jon Boling stood before her, in jeans and a black polo shirt. She realized his hair was a little longer. It would have been that way for the past few days, of course, and she thought: Something else I missed. Missed completely.

Well, it had been one hell of a week.

‘Hey,’ he said.

They kissed and she walked inside.

A skitter of multiple feet behind her, claws that needed clipping. Some enthusiastic couch-jumping and a few good-to-see-you rolls on the back. Dance did the obligatory, but forever comforting to all involved, canine head rubs.

‘Wine?’

Good diagnosis.

A smile, a nod. She sloughed off her jacket and hooked it. Too tired even to search for a hanger.

He returned with the glasses. White for both of them. It’d be an unoaked Chardo

‘The kids?’

‘In their rooms. Wes came home about an hour ago. Didn’t want to look at a program I’d hacked together. And that’s a little weird. He’s in his bedroom now. Seemed kind of moody.’

Wonder why.

‘Mags is in her room too. Been singing up a storm. Violin may be a thing of the past.’

‘Not bad outside, the temperature. Shall we?’

They wandered out to the Deck, brushed curly yellow leaves off the cushions of a couple of uneven wooden chairs. The Monterey Peninsula wasn’t like the Midwest, no seasons really. Leaves fell at their leisure.