HE BRIGHAM FAMILY lived in a scabby bungalow whose yard was strewn with car parts and old appliances, half dismantled. Green garbage bags, out of which flowed trash and rotting leaves, sat amid broken toys and tools. A scruffy cat stared cautiously out from a nest of vines beneath an overgrown hedgerow. It was too lazy or full to care about a pudgy gray rat that skittered past. O’Neil parked in the gravel drive, forty feet or so away from the house, and he and Dance climbed out of his unmarked MCSO car.

They studied the area.

It was like a scene from the rural South, vegetation thick, no other houses in sight, dereliction. The debilitated state of the house and the pungent aroma suggesting a nearby, and inefficient, sewer or a swamp explained how the family could afford such secluded property in this high-priced part of the state.

As they started toward the house she found her hand dangling near her pistol butt, her jacket unbuttoned.

She was spooked, alert.

Still, it was a shock when the boy attacked them.

They had just passed a patch of anemic, reedy grass beside the lopsided detached garage when she turned to O’Neil and found the deputy stiffen as he looked past her. His arm rose and gripped her jacket, pulling her forward to the ground.

“Michael!” she cried.

The rock sailed over her head, missing her by inches, and crashed through a garage window. Another followed a moment later. O’Neil had to duck fast to avoid getting hit. He crashed into a narrow tree.

“You all right?” he asked quickly.

A nod. “You see where it was from?”

“No.”

They were scanning the thicket of woods bordering the property.

“There!” she called, pointing at the boy, in sweats and a stocking cap, who was staring at them. He turned and fled.

Dance debated only a moment. Neither of them had radios; this hadn’t been planned as a tactical mission. And to return to O’Neil’s car to call in a pursuit to Dispatch would have taken too long. They had a chance to catch Travis now and instinctively they went after him, sprinting forward.

CBI agents learn basic hand-to-hand combat skills—though most, Dance included, had never been in a fistfight. They also are required to have physical fitness checkups every so often. Dance was in fair shape, though not thanks to the CBI’s regimen but to her treks into the wilderness to track down music for her website. Despite the impractical outfit—black skirt suit and blouse—she now eased ahead of Michael O’Neil as they pushed fast into the woods in pursuit of the boy.

Who was moving just a little faster.

O’Neil had his cell phone out and was breathlessly calling in a request for backup.

They were both gasping hard and Dance wondered how Dispatch could understand him.

The boy vanished for a moment and the officers slowed. Then Dance cried, “Look,” spotting him emerge from bushes about fifty feet away. “Weapon?” she gasped. He held something dark in his hand.

“Can’t tell.”

Could have been a gun, though maybe a pipe or a knife.

Either way…

He vanished into a dense part of the woods, beyond which Dance could just see a glimmer of a green pond. Probably the source of the stench.

O’Neil glanced at her.

She sighed and nodded. Simultaneously they drew their Glocks.

They pushed forward again.

Dance and O’Neil had worked a number of cases together and fell instinctively into a symbiotic mode on an investigation. But they were at their best when solving intellectual puzzles, not playing soldier.

She had to remind herself: finger off the trigger, never cross in front of your partner’s weapon and lift your muzzle if he crosses in front of you, fire only if threatened, check your backdrop, shoot in bursts of three, count your rounds.

Dance hated this.

Yet it was a chance to stop the Roadside Cross attacker. Picturing Tammy Foster’s terrified eyes, Dance rushed through the woods.

The boy vanished again, and she and O’Neil pulled up, where two paths diverged. Travis had probably taken one—the vegetation was very thick here, impassible in parts. O’Neil silently pointed left, then right, raising an eyebrow.

Flip a coin, she thought, angry and unsettled that she’d have to separate from O’Neil. She nodded toward the left.

They began easing carefully down their respective routes.

Dance was moving through the thickets, thinking how unsuited she was to this role. Her world was one of words and expressions and nuances of gesture. Not tactical work, like this.

She knew how people got hurt, how they died, stepping out of the zones they were in harmony with. A sense of foreboding filled her.

Stop, she told herself. Find Michael, go back to the car and wait for backup.

Too late.

Just then Dance heard a rustling at her feet, and glanced down to see that the boy, hiding in the bushes next to her, had flung a large branch in her way. It caught her foot as she tried to jump over it and she went down hard. Struggling to keep from falling, Dance rolled onto her side.

Which had the effect of saving her wrist.

And another consequence: the boxy, black Glock flew from her hand and vanished into the bushes.

Only seconds later, Dance heard the rustle of bushes once more as the boy, apparently waiting to make certain she was alone, charged out of the bushes.

CARELESS, MICHAEL O’NEIL thought angrily.

He was running in the direction of Dance’s cry, but realized now he had no idea where she was.

They should have stayed together. Careless to split up. Yes, it made sense—to cover as much ground as they could—but while he’d been in several firefights and a couple of street pursuits, Kathryn Dance had not.

If anything happened to her…

In the distance sirens sounded, growing louder. The backup was getting closer. O’Neil slowed to a walk, listening carefully. Maybe the rustle of bushes nearby. Maybe not.

Careless too because Travis would know this area perfectly. It was, literally, his backyard. He’d know where to hide, what paths to escape down.

The gun, weighing nothing in his large hand, swung ahead of O’Neil, as he looked for the attacker.

Frantic.

Pushing ahead another twenty feet. Finally he had to risk some noise. “Kathryn?” he called in a whisper.

Nothing.

Louder: “Kathryn?”

The wind rustled brush and trees.

Then: “Michael, here!” A choked sound. From nearby. He raced toward her words. Then he found her ahead of him on a path, on her hands and knees. Her head down. He heard gasping. Was she wounded? Had Travis struck her with a pipe? Stabbed her?

O’Neil had to suppress his overwhelming urge to tend to her, see how badly hurt she was. He knew procedures. He ran closer, stood over her, his eyes scanning, swiveling around, looking for a target.

At last, some distance away, he saw Travis’s back vanish.

“He’s gone,” Dance said, pulling her weapon from a thicket of bushes and rising to her feet. “Headed that way.”

“You hurt?”

“Sore, that’s all.”

She did seem to be unharmed, but she was dusting at her suit in a way that was troubling to him. She was uncharacteristically shaken, disoriented. He could hardly blame her. But Kathryn Dance had always been a bulwark he could count on, a standard he measured his own behavior against. Her gestures reminded him that they were out of their element here, that this case wasn’t a typical gangbanger hit or a weapons smuggling ring cruising up and down the 101.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Tripped me, then took off. Michael, it wasn’t Travis.”

“What?”

“I got a fast look at him. He was blond.” Dance grimaced at a tear in her skirt, then gave up on the clothing. She started scanning the ground. “He dropped something…. Okay, there.” She picked it up. A can of spray paint.

“What’s this all about?” he wondered aloud.

She tucked the gun away in her hip holster and turned back toward the house. “Let’s go find out.”

THEY ARRIVED BACK at the Brigham house simultaneously with the backup—two Pacific Grove town police cars. A longtime resident, Dance knew the officers and waved hello.

They joined her and O’Neil.

“You all right, Kathryn?” one cop asked, noting her disheveled hair and dusty skirt.

“Fine.” She filled them in on the attack and pursuit. One officer used his shoulder-mounted Motorola to report the incident.

Dance and O’Neil had no sooner gotten to the house when a woman’s voice called out from behind the screen, “Did you get him?” The door opened and the speaker stepped out on the porch. In her forties, Dance guessed, she had a round figure and her face was moonish. She wore painfully taut jeans and a billowy gray blouse with a triangle of stain on the belly. Kathryn Dance noted that the woman’s cream pumps were hopelessly limp and scuffed from bearing her weight. From inattention too.

Dance and O’Neil identified themselves. The woman was Sonia Brigham and she was Travis’s mother.

“Did you get him?” she persisted.

“Do you know who he was, why he attacked us?”

“He wasn’t attacking you,” Sonia said. “He probably didn’t even see you. He was going for the windows. They’ve already got three of ’em.”

One of the Pacific Grove officers explained, “The Brighams’ve been the target of vandalism lately.”

“You said ‘he,’” Dance said. “Do you know who he was?”

“Not that particular one. There’s a bunch of them.”

“Bunch?” O’Neil asked.

“They’re coming by all the time. Throwing rocks, bricks, painting stuff on the house and garage. That’s what we’ve been living with.” A contemptuous wave of the hand, presumably toward where the vandal had disappeared. “After everybody started saying those bad things about Travis. The other day, somebody threw a brick through the living room window, nearly hit my younger son. And look.” She pointed to green spray paint graffiti on the side of a large lopsided shed in the side yard, about fifty feet away

KILL3R!!

Leetspeak, Dance noted.

Dance handed the spray paint to one of the Pacific Grove officers, who said they’d follow up on it. She described the boy—who looked like one of five hundred high school students in the area. They took a brief statement from both Dance and O’Neil, as well as Travis’s mother, then climbed back into their cars and left.

“They’re after my boy. And he didn’t do anything! It’s like the goddamn Ku Klux Klan! That brick nearly hit Sammy. He’s a little troubled. He went crazy. Had an episode.”

Vengeful Angels, Dance reflected. Though the bullying was no longer cyber; it had moved from the synth world into the real.

A round-faced teenager appeared on the porch. His wary smile made him look slow, but his eyes seemed fully comprehending as he took them in. “What is it, what is it?” His voice was urgent.

“It’s okay, Sammy. Go back inside. You go to your room.”

“Who’re they?”

“You go on back to your room. You stay inside. Don’t go to the pond.”

“I want to go to the pond.”

“Not now. Somebody was out there.”

He ambled off into the house.

Michael O’Neil said, “Mrs. Brigham, there was a crime last night, an attempted murder. The victim was someone who’d posted a comment against Travis on a blog.”

“Oh, that Chilton crap!” Sonia spat out between yellow teeth that had aged even faster than the woman’s face. “That’s what started it all. Somebody should throw a brick through his window. Now everybody’s ganging up on our boy. And he didn’t do anything. Why does everybody think he did? They said he stole my mother’s car and was driving it on Lighthouse, you know, exposing himself. Well, my mother sold her car four years ago. That’s how much they know.” Then Sonia had a thought and the seesaw returned to the side of wariness. “Oh, wait, that girl in the trunk, going to be drowned?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I’ll tell you right now, my boy wouldn’ta done anything like that. I swear to God! You’re not going to arrest him, are you?” She looked panicked.

Dance wondered: too panicked? Did she in fact suspect her son?

“We’d just like to talk to him.”

The woman was suddenly uneasy. “My husband isn’t home.”

“You alone is fine. Both parents aren’t necessary.” But Dance could see that the problem was that she didn’t want the responsibility.

“Well, Trav isn’t here either.”

“Will he be back soon?”

“He works part-time, at Bagel Express, for pocket money. His shift’s in a little while. He’ll have to come back here to pick up his uniform.”

“Where is he now?”

A shrug. “Sometimes he goes to this video game place.” She fell silent, probably thinking she shouldn’t be saying anything. “My husband will be back soon.”

Dance noted again the tone with which Sonia delivered those words. My husband.

“Was Travis out last night? Around midnight?”

“No.” Offered fast.

“Are you sure?” Dance asked with a crisp tone. Sonia had just exhibited aversion—looking away—and blocking, touching her nose, a gesture Dance had not observed earlier.

Sonia swallowed. “Probably he was here. I’m not exactly sure. I went to bed early. Travis stays up till all hours. He might’ve gone out. But I didn’t hear anything.”

“And your husband?” She’d noted the singular pronoun regarding her bedtime. “Was he here around that time?”

“He plays poker some. I think he was at a game.”

O’Neil was saying, “We really need to—”

His words braked to a halt as a tall, lanky teenager, shoulders and stance wide, appeared from the side yard. His black jeans were faded, patches of gray showing, and an olive-drab combat jacket covered a black sweatshirt. It didn’t have a hood, Dance noted. He stopped suddenly, blinking in surprise at the visitors. A glance at the unmarked CBI car, which any viewer of a cop show on TV in the last ten years would instantly recognize for what it was.

Dance noted in the boy’s posture and expression the typical reaction of someone spotting law enforcers, whether they were guilty or innocent: caution…and thinking quickly.

“Travis, honey, come over here.”

He remained where he was, and Dance sensed O’Neil tensing.

But a second foot pursuit wasn’t needed. Expressionless, the boy slouched forward to join them.

“These’re police officers,” his mother said. “They want to talk to you.”

“I guess. What about?” His voice was casual, agreeable. He stood with his long arms dangling at his side. His hands were dirty and there was grit under his nails. His hair seemed washed, though; she supposed he did this regularly to combat the sprinkling of acne on his face.

She and O’Neil said hello to the boy and offered their IDs. He studied them for a long moment.

Buying time? Dance wondered.

“Somebody else was here,” Sonia said to her son. She nodded at the graffiti. “Broke a couple more windows.”

Travis took this news from his mother without emotion. He asked, “Sammy?”

“He didn’t see.”

O’Neil asked, “You mind if we go inside?”

He shrugged and they walked into the house, which smelled of mold and cigarette smoke. The place was ordered but grimy. The mismatched furniture seemed secondhand, slipcovers worn and pine legs sloughing off varnish. Dim pictures covered the walls, mostly decorative. Dance could see part of a National Geographic magazine logo just below the frame of a picture of Venice. A few were of the family. The two boys, and one or two of Sonia when she was younger.

Sammy appeared, as before, big, moving quickly, grinning again.

“Travis!” He charged toward his sibling. “Did you bring me M’s?”

“Here you go.” Travis dug into his pocket and handed the boy a packet of M& M’s.

“Yea!” Sammy opened the package carefully, looked inside. Then gazed at his brother. “The pond was nice today.”

“Was it?”

“Yeah.” Sammy returned to his room, clutching the candy in his hand.

Travis said, “He doesn’t look good. Did he take his pills?”

His mother looked away. “They…”

“Dad wouldn’t get the prescription refilled because the price went up. Right?”

“He doesn’t think they do that much good.”

“They do a lot of good, Mom. You know how he gets when he doesn’t take them.”

Dance glanced into Sammy’s room and saw that the boy’s desk was covered with complicated electronic components, parts of computers and tools—along with toys for children much younger. He was reading a Japanese graphic novel as he slouched in a chair. The boy glanced up and stared at Dance intently, studying her. He gave a faint smile and nodded toward the book. Dance smiled back at the cryptic gesture. He returned to reading. His lips moved.

She noticed on a hall table a laundry basket filled with clothes. She tapped O’Neil’s arm and glanced at a gray sweatshirt sitting on the top. It was a hoodie.

O’Neil nodded.

“How are you feeling?” Dance asked Travis. “After the accident?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“It must’ve been terrible.”

“Yeah.”

“But you weren’t hurt bad?”

“Not really. The airbag, you know. And I wasn’t going that fast…. Trish and Van.” A grimace. “If they’d had their seat belts on they would’ve been fine.”

Sonia repeated, “His father should be home anytime now.”

O’Neil continued evenly, “Just have a few questions.” Then he stepped back to the corner of the living room, leaving the questioning to Dance.

She asked, “What grade are you in?”

“Just finished junior year.”

“Robert Louis Stevenson, right?”

“Yeah.”

“What’re you studying?”

“I don’t know, stuff. I like computer science and math. Spanish. Just, you know, what everybody’s taking.”

“How’s Stevenson?”

“It’s okay. Better than Monterey Public or Junipero.” He was answering agreeably, looking directly into her eyes.

At Junipero Serra School, uniforms were required. Dance supposed that more than stern Jesuits and long homework assignments, the dress code was the most hated aspect of the place.

“How’re the gangs?”

“He’s not in a gang,” his mother said. Almost as if she wished he were.

They all ignored her.

“Not bad,” Travis responded. “They leave us alone. Not like Salinas.”

The point of these questions wasn’t social. Dance was asking them to determine the boy’s baseline behavior. After a few minutes of these harmless inquiries, Dance had a good feel for the boy’s nondeceptive mode. Now she was ready to ask about the assault.

“Travis, you know Tammy Foster, don’t you?”

“The girl in the trunk. It was on the news. She goes to Stevenson. She and me don’t talk or anything. Maybe we had a class together freshman year.” He then looked Dance straight in the eye. His hand occasionally strayed across his face but she wasn’t sure whether it was a blocking gesture, signifying deception, or because he was ashamed of the acne. “She posted some stuff about me in The Chilton Report. It wasn’t true.”

“What did she say?” Dance asked, though she recalled the post, about his trying to take pictures of the girls’ locker room after cheerleading practice.

The boy hesitated, as if wondering if she was trying to trap him. “She said I was taking pictures. You know, of the girls.” His face grew dark. “But I was just on the phone, you know, talking.”

“Really,” his mother interjected. “Bob’ll be home any minute now. I might rather wait.”

But Dance felt a certain urgency to keep going. She knew without doubt that if Sonia wanted to wait for her husband, the man would put a fast end to the interview.

Travis asked, “Is she going to be okay? Tammy?”

“Looks like it.”

He glanced at the scarred coffee table, where an empty but smudged ashtray rested. Dance didn’t think she’d seen an ashtray in a living room for years. “You think I did it? Tried to hurt her?” How easily his dark eyes, set deep beneath those brows, held hers.

“No. We’re just talking to everybody who might have information about the situation.”

“Situation?” he asked.

“Where were you last night? Between eleven and one?”

Another sweep of the hair. “I went to the Game Shed about ten-thirty.”

“What’s that?”

“This place where you can play video games. Like an arcade. I kind of hang there some. You know where it is? It’s by Kinko’s. It used to be that old movie theater but that got torn down and they put it in. It’s not the best, the connections aren’t so good, but it’s the only one that’s open late.”

Dance noted the rambling. She asked, “You were alone?”

“There were, like, other kids there. But I was playing alone.”

“I thought you were here,” Sonia said.

A shrug. “I was here. I went out. I couldn’t sleep.”

“At the Game Shed were you online?” Dance asked.

“Like, no. I was playing pinball, not RPG.”

“Not what?”

“Role-playing games. For shooter and pinball and driving games you don’t go online.”

He said this patiently, though he seemed surprised she didn’t know the distinction.

“So you weren’t logged on?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“How long were you there?” His mother had taken on the interrogation.

“I don’t know, an hour, two.”

“What do those games cost? Fifty cents, a dollar every few minutes?”

So that was Sonia’s agenda. Money.

“If you play good, it lets you keep on going. Cost me three dollars for the whole night. I used money I made. And I got some food too and a couple of Red Bulls.”

“Travis, can you think of anybody who saw you there?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I’ll have to think about it.” Eyes studying the floor.

“Good. And what time did you come home?”

“One-thirty. Maybe two. I don’t know.”

She asked more questions about Monday night and then about school and his classmates. She wasn’t able to decide whether or not he was telling the truth since he wasn’t deviating much from his baseline. She thought again about what Jon Boling had told her about the synth world. If Travis was mentally there, not in the real world, baseline analysis might be useless. Maybe a whole different set of rules applied to people like Travis Brigham.

Then the mother’s eyes flickered toward the doorway. The boy’s too.

Dance and O’Neil turned to see a large man enter, tall and broad. He was wearing workmen’s overalls streaked in dirt, Central Coast Landscaping embroidered on his chest. He looked at everybody in the room, slowly. Dark eyes still and unfriendly beneath a fringe of thick, brown hair.

“Bob, these are police—”

“They’re not here with the report for the insurance, are they?”

“No. They—”

“You have a warrant?”

“They’re here to—”

“I’m talking to her.” A nod at Dance.

“I’m Agent Dance with the California Bureau of Investigation.” She offered an ID he didn’t look at. “And this is Senior Deputy O’Neil, Monterey County Sheriff’s Office. We’re asking your son a few questions about a crime.”

“There was no crime. It was an accident. Those girls died in an accident. That’s all that happened.”

“We’re here about something else. Someone who’d posted a message about Travis was attacked.”

“Oh, that blog bullshit.” He growled. “That Chilton is a danger to society. He’s like a fucking poisonous snake.” He turned to his wife. “Joey, down at the dock, nearly got hisself popped in the mouth, the stuff he was saying about me. Egging on the other boys. Just ’cause I’m his father. They don’t read the newspaper, they don’t read Newsweek. But they read that Chilton crap. Somebody should…” His voice faded. He turned toward his son. “I told you not to say anything to anybody without we have a lawyer. Did I tell you that? You say the wrong fucking thing to the wrong person, and we get sued. And they take the house away and half my paycheck for the rest of my life.” He lowered his voice. “And your brother goes into a home.”

“Mr. Brigham, we’re not here about the accident,” O’Neil reminded him. “We’re investigating the assault last night.”

“Doesn’t matter, does it? Things get written down and go into the record.”

He seemed more concerned about responsibility for the accident than that his son might get arrested for attempted murder.

Ignoring them completely, he said to his wife, “Why’d you let ’em in? This ain’t Nazi Germany, not yet. You can tell ’em to shove it.”

“I thought—”

“No, you didn’t. You didn’t think at all.” To O’Neil: “Now, I’ll ask you to leave. And if you come back it better be with a warrant.”

“Dad!” Sammy cried, racing from his bedroom, startling Dance. “It’s working! I wanta show you!” He was holding up a circuit board, from which wires sprouted.

Brigham’s gruffness vanished instantly. He hugged the younger son and said kindly, “We’ll look at it later, after supper.”

Dance was watching Travis’s eyes, which grew still at the display of affection toward his younger brother.

“Okay.” Sammy hesitated, then went out the back door and clomped down the porch and headed toward the shed.

“Stay close,” Sonia called.

Dance noted that she hadn’t told her husband about the vandalism that had just occurred. She’d be afraid of delivering bad news. She did, however, say of Sammy, “Maybe he should be on his pills.” Eyes everywhere but at her husband.

“They’re a rip-off, what they cost. Weren’t you listening to me? And what’s the point, if he stays home all day?”

“But he doesn’t stay home all day. That’s—”

“Because Travis don’t watch him like he should.”

The boy listened passively, apparently unmoved by the criticism.

O’Neil said to Bob Brigham, “A serious crime was committed. We need to talk to everyone who might be involved. And your son is involved. Can you confirm he was at the Game Shed last night?”

“I was out. But that’s none of your business. And listen up, my boy didn’t have nothing to do with any attacks. You staying’s trespassing, isn’t it?” He lifted a bushy eyebrow as he lit a cigarette, waved the match out and dropped it accurately into the ashtray. “And you,” he snapped to Travis. “You’re going to be late for work.”

The boy went into his bedroom.

Dance was frustrated. He was their prime suspect, but she simply couldn’t tell what was going on in Travis’s mind.

The boy returned, carrying a brown-and-beige-striped uniform jacket on a hanger. He rolled it up and stuffed it into his backpack.

“No,” Brigham barked. “Your mother ironed it. Put it on. Don’t crumple it up like that.”

“I don’t want to wear it now.”

“Show some respect to your mother, after all her work.”

“It’s a bagel shop. Who cares?”

“That’s not the point. Put it on. Do what I’m telling you.”

The boy stiffened. Dance gave an audible gasp seeing Travis’s face. Eyes widening, shoulders rising. His lips drew back like those of a snarling animal. Travis raged to his father, “It’s a stupid fucking uniform. I wear it on the street and they laugh at me!”

The father leaned forward. “You do not ever talk to me that way, and never in front of other people!”

“I get laughed at enough. I’m not going to wear it! You don’t have any fucking idea!” Dance saw the boy’s frantic eyes flicker around the room and settle on the ashtray, a possible weapon. O’Neil noticed this too and tensed, in case a fight was about to break out.

Travis had become somebody else entirely, possessed with anger.

The tendency to violence in young people almost always comes from rage, not watching movies or TV….

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” Travis growled, wheeled around and pushed through the screen door, letting it snap back loudly. He hurried into the side yard, grabbed his bike, which was leaning against a broken fence, and walked it down a path through the woods bordering the backyard.

“You two, thanks for fucking up our day. Now get out.”

With neutral-toned good-byes, Dance and O’Neil headed for the door, Sonia offering a timid glance of apology. Travis’s father strode into the kitchen. Dance heard the refrigerator door open; a bottle fizzed open.

Outside, she asked, “How’d you do?”

“Not bad, I think,” O’Neil offered and held up a tiny tuft of gray. He’d tugged it off the sweatshirt in the laundry basket when he’d stepped away to let Dance take over the questioning.

They sat in the front seat of O’Neil’s cruiser. The doors slammed simultaneously. “I’ll drop the fiber off with Peter Bennington.”

It wouldn’t be admissible—they had no warrant—but it would at least tell them that Travis was the likely suspect.

“If it matches, put him under surveillance?” she asked.

A nod. “I’ll stop by the bagel shop. If his bike’s outside, I can get a soil sample from the treads. I think a magistrate’d go with a warrant if the dirt matches the beach scene.” He looked Dance’s way. “Gut feeling? You think he did it?”

Dance debated. “All I can say is that I only got clear deception signals twice.”

“When?”

“First when he said he was at the Game Shed last night.”

“And the second time?”

“When he said he didn’t do anything wrong.”