S SHE DROVE along the highway, Kathryn Dance called Jon Boling.

“How did it go?” he asked brightly.

“What was that phrase that was in the blog about Travis? One of the kids posted it. ‘Epic’ something…”

“Oh.” Less cheer now. “Epic fail.”

“Yeah, that describes it pretty well. I tried for the good-publicity approach but he went for door number two: the fascists trammeling free press. With a touch of ‘the world needs me.’”

“Ouch. Sorry about that. Bad call.”

“It was worth a shot. But I think you’d better start trying to get as many names as you can on your own.”

“I already have. Just in case Chilton gave you the boot. I should have some names soon. Oh, did he say he’d get even in a blog posting about you for suggesting it?”

She chuckled. “Came close. The headline would’ve been ‘CBI agent in attempted bribe.’”

“I doubt he will—you’re small potatoes. Nothing personal. But with hundreds of thousands of people reading what he writes, he sure does have the power to make you worry.” Then Boling’s voice grew somber. “I should tell you the postings are getting worse. Some of the posters are saying they’ve seen Travis doing devil worship, sacrificing animals. And there are stories about him groping other students, girls and boys. All sounds bogus to me, though. It’s like they’re trying to one-up each other. The stories are getting more outlandish.”

Rumors…

“The one thing that’s a recurring reference, which makes me think there’s some truth in it, is the online role-playing games. They’re talking about the kid being obsessed with fighting and death. Especially with swords and knives and slashing his victims.”

“He’s slipped into the synthetic world.”

“Seems that way.”

After they disconnected, Dance turned up the volume on her iPod Touch—she was listening to Badi Assad, the beautiful Brazilian guitarist and singer. It was illegal to listen through the ear buds while driving, but running the music through the speakers in a cop car didn’t produce the most faithful sound quality.

And she needed a serious dose of soul-comforting music.

Dance felt the urgency to pursue the case, but she was a mother too and she’d always balanced her two worlds. She’d now pick up her children from her mother’s care at the hospital, spend a little time with them and drop them off at her parents’ house, where Stuart Dance would resume baby-sitting, after he returned from his meeting at the aquarium. And she would head back to the CBI to continue the hunt for Travis Brigham.

She continued the drive in the big, unmarked CVPI—her Police Interceptor Ford. It handled like a combination race car and tank. Not that Dance had ever pushed the vehicle to its limits. She wasn’t a natural driver and, though she’d taken the required high-speed-pursuit course in Sacramento, couldn’t picture herself actually chasing another driver along the winding roads of central California. With this thought, an image from the blog came to mind—the photo of the roadside crosses at the site of the terrible accident on Highway 1 on June 9, the tragedy that had set all of this subsequent horror in motion.

She now pulled up in the hospital lot and noticed several California Highway Patrol cars, and two unmarkeds, parked in front of the hospital. She couldn’t remember a report about any police action involving injuries. Climbing from the car, she observed a change in the protesters. For one thing, there were more of them. Three dozen or so. And they’d been joined by two more news crews.

Also, she noticed, they were boisterous, waving their placards and crosses like sports fans. Smiling, chanting. Dance noticed that the Reverend Fisk was being approached by several men, shaking his hands in sequence. His red-haired minder was carefully scanning the parking lot.

And then Dance froze, gasping.

Walking out the front door of the hospital were Wes and Maggie—faces grim—accompanied by an African-American woman in a navy blue suit. She was directing them to one of the unmarked sedans.

Robert Harper, the special prosecutor she’d met outside Charles Overby’s office, emerged.

And behind him walked Dance’s mother. Edie Dance was flanked by two large uniformed CHP troopers, and she was in handcuffs.

DANCE JOGGED FORWARD.

“Mom!” twelve-year-old Wes shouted and ran across the parking lot, pulling his sister after him.

“Wait, you can’t do that!” shouted the woman who’d been accompanying them. She started forward, fast.

Dance knelt, embracing her son and daughter.

The woman’s stern voice resounded across the parking lot. “We’re taking the children—”

“You’re not taking anybody,” Dance growled, then turned again to her children: “Are you all right?”

“They arrested Grandma!” Maggie said, tears welling. Her chestnut braid hung limply over her shoulder, where it had jumped in the run.

“I’ll talk to them in a minute.” Dance rose. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“No.” Lean Wes, nearly as tall as his mother, said in a shaky voice, “They just, that woman and the police, they just came and got us and said they’re taking us someplace, I don’t know where.”

“I don’t want to leave you, Mommy!” Maggie clung to her tightly.

Dance reassured her daughter, “Nobody’s taking you anywhere. Okay, go get in the car.”

The woman in the blue suit approached and said in a low tone, “Ma’am, I’m afraid—” And found herself talking to Dance’s CBI identification card and shield, thrust close to her face. “The children are going with me,” Dance said.

The woman read the ID, unimpressed. “It’s procedure. You under stand. It’s for their own good. We’ll get it all sorted out and if everything checks out—”

“The children are going with me.”

“I’m a social worker with Monterey County Child Services.” Her own ID appeared.

Dance was thinking that there were probably negotiations that should be going on at the moment but still she pulled her handcuffs out of her back holster in a smooth motion and swung them open like a large crab claw. “Listen to me. I’m their mother. You know my identity. You know theirs. Now back off, or I’m arresting you under California Penal Code section two-oh-seven.”

Observing this, the TV reporters seemed to stiffen as one, like a lizard sensing the approach of an oblivious beetle. Cameras swung their way.

The woman turned toward Robert Harper, who seemed to debate. He glanced at the reporters and apparently decided that, in this situation, bad publicity was worse than no publicity. He nodded.

Dance smiled to her children, hitching the cuffs away, and walked them to her car. “It’s going to be okay. Don’t worry. This is just a big mix-up.” She closed the door, locking it with the remote. She stormed past the social worker, who was glaring back with sleek, defiant eyes, and approached her mother, who was being eased into the back of a squad car.

“Honey!” Edie Dance exclaimed.

“Mom, what’s—”

“You can’t talk to the prisoner,” Harper said.

She whirled and faced Harper, who was exactly her height. “Don’t play games with me. What’s this all about?”

He regarded her calmly. “She’s being taken to the county lockup for processing and a bail hearing. She’s been arrested and informed of her rights. I have no obligation to say anything to you.”

The cameras continued to pick up every second of the drama.

Edie Dance called, “They said I killed Juan Millar!”

“Please be quiet, Mrs. Dance.”

The agent raged at Harper, “That ‘caseload evaluation’? It was just bullshit, right?”

Harper easily ignored her.

Dance’s cell phone rang and she stepped aside to answer it. “Dad.”

“Katie, I just got home and found the police here. State police. They’re searching everything. Mrs. Kensington next door said they took away a couple of boxes of things.”

“Dad, Mom’s been arrested….”

“What?”

“That mercy killing. Juan Millar.”

“Oh, Katie.”

“I’m taking the kids to Martine’s, then meet me at the courthouse in Salinas. She’s going to be booked and there’ll be a bond hearing.”

“Sure. I…I don’t know what to do, honey.” His voice broke.

It cut her deeply to hear her own father—normally unflappable and in control—sounding so helpless.

“We’ll get it worked out,” she said, trying to sound confident but feeling just as uncertain and confused as he would be. “I’ll call later, Dad.” They disconnected.

“Mom,” she called through the car window, looking down at her mother’s grim face. “It’ll be all right. I’ll see you at the courthouse.”

The prosecutor said sternly, “Agent Dance, I don’t want to remind you again. No talking to the prisoner.”

She ignored Harper. “And don’t say a word to anyone,” she warned her mother.

“I hope we’re not going to have a security problem here,” the prosecutor said stiffly.

Dance glared back, silently defying him to make good on his threat, whatever it might be. Then she glanced at the CHP troopers nearby, one of whom she’d worked with. His eyes avoided hers. Everybody was in Harper’s pocket on this one.

She turned and strode back toward her car, but diverted to the woman social worker.

Dance stood close. “Those children have cell phones. I’m number two on speed dial, right after nine-one-one. And I guarantee they told you I’m a law enforcement officer. Why the fuck didn’t you call me?”

The woman blinked and reared back. “You can’t talk to me that way.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you call?”

“I was following procedures.”

“Procedures are the welfare of the child comes first. You contact the parent or guardian in circumstances like this.”

“Well, I was doing what I was told.”

“How long’ve you had this job?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Well, I’ll tell you, miss. There’re two answers: either not long enough, or way too long.”

“You can’t—”

But Dance was gone by then and climbing back into her car, grinding the starter; she’d never shut the engine off when she’d arrived.

“Mom,” Maggie asked, weeping with heartbreaking whimpers. “What’s going to happen to Grandma?”

Dance wasn’t going to put on a false facade for the children; she’d learned as a parent that in the end it was better to confront pain and fear, rather than to deny or defer them. But she had to struggle to keep panic from her voice. “Your grandmother’s going to see a judge and I hope she’ll be home soon. Then we’re going to find out what’s happened. We just don’t know yet.”

She’d take the children to the home of her best friend, Martine Christensen, with whom she operated her music website.

“I don’t like that man,” Wes said.

“Who?”

“Mr. Harper.”

“I don’t like him either,” Dance said.

“I want to go to the courthouse with you,” Maggie said.

“No, Mags. I don’t know how long I’m going to be there.”

Dance glanced back and gave a reassuring smile to the children.

Seeing their wan, forlorn faces, she grew all the angrier at Robert Harper.

Dance plugged in her phone’s hands-free mike, thought for a moment and called the best defense lawyer she could think of. George Sheedy had once spent four hours trying to discredit Dance on the witness stand. He’d come close to winning a verdict of not guilty for a Salinas gang leader who clearly was. But the good guys had won and the punk got life. After the trial, Sheedy had come up to Dance and shaken her hand, complimenting her on the solid job she’d done testifying. She’d told him too that she’d been impressed by his skill.

As her call was being transferred to Sheedy, she noticed that the cameramen continued to record the excitement, every one of them focused on the car in which her mother sat, handcuffed. They looked like insurgents firing rocket launchers at shell-shocked troops.

CALM NOW, AFTER the intruder in the backyard turned out not to be the Abominable Snowman, Kelley Morgan was concentrating on her hair.

The teenager was never far from her curlers.

Her hair was the most frustrating thing in the world. A little humidity and it went all frizzy. Pissed her off sooo much.

She had to meet Juanita and Trey and Toni on Alvarado in forty minutes, and they were such great friends that if she was more than ten minutes late they’d ditch her. She lost track of time writing a post on Bri’s Town Hall board on OurWorld, about Tammy Foster.

Then Kelley’d looked up, into the mirror, and realized that the damp air had turned the strands into this total creature. So she logged off and attacked the brunette tangles.

Somebody had once posted on a local blog—anonymously, of course:

Kelley Morgan…whats with her hair?????? its like shes a mushroom. I dont like girls with shaved heads but she should go for THAT look. LOL. yikes why dosnt she get a clue.

Kelley had sobbed, paralyzed at the terrible words, which cut her like a razor.

That post was the reason she’d defended Tammy on OurWorld and flamed AnonGurl (who she did end up owning, big-time).

Even now, thinking of the cruel post about her hair, she shivered with shame. And anger. Never mind that Jamie said he loved everything about her. The posting had devastated her and made her hypersensitive about the subject. And had cost her countless hours. Since that April 4 post, she hadn’t once gone outside without battling the do into shape.

Okay, get to work, girl.

She rose from her desk and went to her dressing table and plugged in the heated rollers. They gave her split ends but at least the heat tamed the worst of the renegade tresses.

She flicked the dressing table light on and sat down, stripped off her blouse and tossed it onto the floor, then pulled two tank tops over her bra, liking the look of the three straps: red, pink and black. Tested the curlers. A few more minutes. Almost right. She started to brush. It was soooo unfair. Pretty face, nice boobs, great ass. And this effing hair.

She happened to glance at her computer and saw an instant message from a friend.

Check out TCR, I mean NOW!!!!!!!!

Kelley laughed. Trish was so exclamation point.

Usually she didn’t read The Chilton Report—it was more politics than she cared about—but she’d put it on her RSS feed after Chilton had begun posting about the accident on June 9 under the “Roadside Crosses” thread. Kelley had been at the party that night and, just before Caitlin and the other girls left, had seen Travis Brigham arguing with Caitlin.

She swung to the keyboard and typed, Don’t Xplode. Y?

Trish responded, Chilton took out names but people are saying Travis attacked Tammy!!

Kelley typed, Is this win or r u guessing?

The response: WIN, WIN!!!! Travis is pissed b/c she flamed him in the blog, READ IT!!!! THE DRIVER = TRAVIS and THE VICTIM = TAMMY.

Sick to her stomach, Kelley began pounding the keys, calling up The Chilton Report and plowing through the “Roadside Crosses” thread. Toward the end, she read:

Reply to Chilton, posted by BrittanyM.

Is anybody watching the news???? Somebody left a cross and then went out and attacked that girl. What’s that all about? OMG, I’ll bet it’s [the driver]!

Reply to Chilton, posted by CT093.

Where the [deleted] are the police? I heard that that girl in the trunk was raped and had crosses carved on her, then he LEFT her in the trunk to drown. Just because she dissed him—[the driver], I mean I just looked at the news and he hasn’t been arrested yet. WHY NOT?????

Reply to Chilton, posted by Anonymous.

Me and my friends were near the beach where [the victim] was found and they heard the police talking about this cross. They were like he left it as a warning for people to shut up. [The victim] was attacked and raped because she dissed [the driver] HERE, i mean what she wrote in the blog!!! Listen if you flamed him here and you’re not using proxies or posting anon, you’re totally [deleted], he’s going to get you!!

Reply to Chilton, posted by Anonymous.

I know a d00d where [the driver] goes to game and he was saying that [the driver] was saying he was going to get everybody who was posting stuff about him, he planned to cut their throats like terrorists do on arab TV, hey, cops, the driver] is the Roadside Cross killer!!! And that’s WORD!!!

No…God, no! Kelley thought back to what she’d posted about Travis. What’d she said? Would the boy be mad at her? She frantically scrolled up and found her post.

Reply to Chilton, posted by BellaKelley.

u r so right!!! Me and my friend were at that party on the 9th where it happened and [the driver] was coming on to [deleted] and they were like, just go away. But he didn’t, he followed them out the door when they were leaving. But we have ourselves to blame too for not doing anything, all of us who were there. We all knew [the driver] is a luser and perv and we should have called the police or somebody when they left. I had this bad feeling like in Ghost Whisperer. And look what happened.

Why? Why did I say that?

I was all, Leave Tammy alone. Don’t flame people online. And then I went and said something about Travis.

Shit. Now he’s going to get me too! Is that what I’d heard outside earlier? Maybe he really was outside and, when my brother showed up, that scared him off.

Kelley thought of the bicyclist she’d seen. Hell, Travis rode a bike all the time; a lot of kids at school made fun of him because he couldn’t afford a car.

Dismayed, angry, scared…

Kelley was staring at the posts on the screen of the computer, when she heard a noise behind her.

A snap, like earlier.

Another.

She turned.

A wrenching scream poured from Kelley Morgan’s lips.

A face—the most frightening face she’d ever seen—was staring at her from the window. Kelley’s rational thinking stopped cold. She dropped to her knees, feeling the warm liquid gush between her legs as she lost control of her bladder. A pain spurted in her chest, spread to her jaw, her nose, eyes. She nearly stopped breathing.

The face, motionless, staring with its huge black eyes, scarred skin, slits for the nose, the mouth sewn shut and bloody.

The pure horror from her childhood fears flooded through her.

“No, no, no!” Sobbing like a baby, Kelley was scrabbling away as fast as she could and as far as she could. She slammed into the wall and sprawled, stunned, on the carpet.

Eyes staring, black eyes.

Staring right at her.

“No…”

Jeans drenched with pee, stomach churning, Kelley crawled desperately toward the door.

The eyes, the mouth with the bloody stitching in it. The yeti, the Abominable Snowman. Somewhere in that portion of her mind that still worked she knew it was only a mask, tied to the crape myrtle tree outside the window.

But that didn’t lessen the fear it ignited within her—the rawest of her childhood fears.

And she knew too what it meant.

Travis Brigham was here. He’d come to kill her, just like he’d tried to kill Tammy Foster.

Kelley finally managed to climb to her feet and stumbled to her door. Run. Get the fuck out.

In the hall she turned toward the front door.

Shit! It was open! Her brother hadn’t locked it at all.

Travis was here, in the house!

Should she just sprint through the living room?

As she stood frozen in fear, he got her from behind, his arm snaking around her throat.

She struggled—until he jammed a gun against her temple.

Sobbing. “Please, no, Travis.”

“Perv?” he whispered. “Luser?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it!”

As he dragged her backward, toward the basement door, she felt his arm flex harder until her pleas and the choking grew softer and softer and the glare from the spotless living room window turned gray and then went black.

KATHRYN DANCE WAS no stranger to the American justice system. She had been in magistrates’ offices and courtrooms as a crime journalist, a jury consultant, a law enforcement officer.

But she’d never been the relative of the accused.

After leaving the hospital, she’d dropped the children off at Martine’s and called her sister, Betsey, who lived with her husband down in Santa Barbara.

“Bet, there’s a problem with Mom.”

“What? Tell me what happened.” There’d been a rare edge in the voice of the otherwise flighty woman, younger than Dance by several years. Betsey had curly angelic hair and flitted from career to career like a butterfly testing out flowers.

Dance had run through the details she knew.

“I’ll call her now,” Betsey had announced.

“She’s in detention. They’ve got her phone. There’ll be a bail hearing soon. We’ll know more then.”

“I’m coming up.”

“It might be better later.”

“Sure, of course. Oh, Katie, how serious is this?”

Dance had hesitated. She recalled Harper’s still, determined eyes, missionary’s eyes. Finally she’d said, “It could be bad.”

After they’d disconnected, Dance had continued here, to the magistrate’s office at the courthouse, where she now sat with her father. The lean, white-haired man was even paler than usual (he’d learned the hard way of the dangers a marine biologist faces in the ocean sun and was now a sunscreen and hat addict). His arm was around her shoulders.

Edie had spent an hour in the holding cell—the intake area in which many of Dance’s collars had been booked. Dance knew the procedures well: All personal effects were confiscated. You went through the warrant check and the inputting of information, and you sat in a cell, surrounded by other arrestees. And then you waited and waited.

Finally you were brought here, into the magistrate’s chilly impersonal room for a bail hearing. Dance and her father were surrounded by dozens of family members of arrestees. Most of the accused here, some in street clothes, some in red Monterey County jumpsuits, were young Latino men. Dance recognized plenty of gang tats. Some were sullen whites, scruffier than the Latinos, with worse teeth and hair. In the back sat the public defenders. The bail bondsmen, too, waiting to pick up their 10 percent from the carcasses.

Dance lifted her eyes to her mother as she was brought in. It broke her heart to see the woman in handcuffs. She wasn’t in a jumpsuit. But her hair, normally perfectly done, was in a shambles. Her homemade necklace had been taken from her upon processing. Her wedding and engagement rings too. Her eyes were red.

Lawyers milled about, some not much spiffier than their clients; only Edie Dance’s attorney was in a suit that had been shaped by a tailor after purchase. George Sheedy had been practicing criminal law on the Central Coast for two decades. He had abundant gray hair, a trapezoidal figure with broad shoulders and a bass voice that would have done a stunning version of “Old Man River.”

After the brief phone conversation with Sheedy from the car, Dance had immediately called Michael O’Neil, who’d been shocked at the news. She then called the Monterey County prosecutor, Alonzo “Sandy” Sandoval.

“I just heard about it, Kathryn,” Sandoval muttered angrily. “I’m being straight with you: We’ve had MCSO looking into the Millar death, sure, but I had no idea that’s what Harper was in town for. And a public arrest.” He was bitter. “That was inexcusable. If the AG insisted on a prosecution, I would’ve had her surrender with you bringing her in.”

Dance believed him. She and Sandy had worked together for years and had put a lot of bad people in jail, thanks in part to mutual trust.

“But I’m sorry, Kathryn. Monterey has nothing to do with the case. It’s in Harper’s and Sacramento’s hands now.”

She’d thanked him and hung up. But at least she had been able to get her mother’s bail hearing handled quickly. Under California law the time of the hearing is at the magistrate’s discretion. In some places, like River side and Los Angeles, prisoners are often in a cell for twelve hours before they appear in front of the magistrate. Since the case was murder it was possible the magistrate might not set bail at all, leaving that to the discretion of the judge at the arraignment, which in California would have to occur within a few days.

The door to the outer hallway kept opening and Dance noticed that many of the recent arrivals were wearing media identification cards around their necks. No cameras were allowed, but there were plenty of pads of paper.

A circus…

The clerk called out, “Edith Barbara Dance,” and, somber and red-eyed and still cuffed, her mother rose. Sheedy joined her. A jailor was beside them. This session was devoted exclusively to the bail; pleas were entered later, at the arraignment. Harper asked that Edie be held without bail, which didn’t surprise Dance. Her father stiffened at the prosecutor’s harsh words, which made Edie out to be a dangerous Jack Kevorkian, who, if released on bail, would target other patients for death and then flee to Canada.

Stuart gasped, hearing his wife spoken about in this way.

“It’s okay, Dad,” his daughter whispered. “That’s just the way they talk.” Though the words broke her heart too.

George Sheedy argued articulately for an OR release—on Edie’s own recognizance, pointing to her lack of a criminal record and to her roots in the community.

The magistrate, a quick-eyed Latino who had met Kathryn Dance, exuded considerable stress, which she could easily read in his posture and facial expressions. He wouldn’t want this case at all; he’d have loyalty to Dance, who was a reasonable law officer, cooperative. But he would also be aware that Harper was a big name from the big city. And the magistrate would be very aware of the media too.

The arguments continued.

Dance the law enforcer found herself looking back to earlier that month, reliving the circumstances of the officer’s death. Trying to match facts with facts. Whom had she seen in the hospital around the time Juan Millar died? What exactly were the means of death? Where had her mother been?

She now glanced up and found Edie staring at her. Dance gave a pale smile. Edie’s face was expressionless. The woman turned back to Sheedy.

In the end the magistrate compromised. He set the bail at a half million dollars, which wasn’t atypical for a murder, but also wasn’t overly burdensome. Edie and Stuart weren’t wealthy but they owned their house outright; since it was in Carmel, not far from the beach, it had to be worth two million. They could put it up as security.

Harper took the news stoically—his face unsmiling, his posture upright but relaxed. Dance’s reading was that he was completely stress free, despite the setback. He reminded her of the killer in Los Angeles, J. Doe. One of the reasons she’d had such a hard time spotting that perp’s deception was that a highly driven, focused person reveals, and feels, little distress when lying in the name of his cause. This certainly defined Robert Harper.

Edie was hustled back to the cell and Stuart rose and went to see the clerk to arrange for the bail.

As Harper buttoned his jacket and walked toward the door, his face a mask, Dance intercepted him. “Why are you doing this?”

He regarded her coolly, said nothing.

She continued, “You could’ve let Monterey County handle the case. Why’d you come down from San Francisco? What’s your agenda?” She was speaking loudly enough for the reporters nearby to hear.

Harper said evenly, “I can’t discuss this with you.”

“Why my mother?”

“I have nothing to say.” And he pushed through the door and onto the steps of the courthouse, where he paused to address the press—to whom he apparently had plenty to say.

Dance returned to a hard bench to await her father and mother.

Ten minutes later, George Sheedy and Stuart Dance joined her.

She asked her father, “It went okay?”

“Yes,” he answered in a hollow voice.

“How soon will she be out?”

Stuart looked at Sheedy, who said, “Ten minutes, maybe less.”

“Thank you.” He shook the lawyer’s hand. Dance nodded her gratitude to Sheedy, who told them he was returning to the office and would get started on the defense immediately.

After he’d gone, Dance asked her father, “What did they take from the house, Dad?”

“I don’t know. The neighbor said they seemed most interested in the garage. Let’s get out of here. I hate this place.”

They walked out into the hallway. Several reporters saw Dance and approached. “Agent Dance,” one woman asked, “is it troubling to know your mother’s been arrested for murder?”

Well, there’s some cutting-edge interviewing. She wanted to fire back with something sarcastic, but she remembered the number-one rule in media relations: Assume everything you say in a reporter’s presence will appear on the six o’clock news or on tomorrow’s front page. She smiled. “There’s no doubt in my mind that this is a terrible misunderstanding. My mother has been a nurse for years. She’s devoted herself to saving lives, not taking them.”

“Did you know that she signed a petition supporting Jack Kevorkian and assisted suicide?”

No, Dance didn’t know that. And, she wondered, how had the press come by the information so fast? Her reply: “You’ll have to ask her about that. But petitioning to change the law isn’t the same as breaking it.”

It was then that her phone sounded. It was O’Neil. She stepped away to take the call. “Michael, she’s getting out on bail,” she told him.

There was a moment’s pause. “Good. Thank God.”

Dance realized he was calling about something else, and something that was serious. “What is it, Michael?”

“They’ve found another cross.”

“A real memorial, or with a future date?”

“Today. And it’s identical to the first one. Branches and florist wire.”

Her eyes closed in despair. Not again.

Then O’Neil said, “But, listen. We’ve got a witness. A guy who saw Travis leave it. He might’ve seen where he went or saw something about him that’ll tell us where he’s hiding. Can you interview him?”

Another pause. Then: “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

O’Neil gave her the address. They disconnected.

Dance turned to her father. “Dad, I can’t stay. I’m so sorry.”

He turned his handsome, distraught face toward his daughter. “What?”

“They found another cross. The boy’s going after somebody else, it looks like. Today. But there’s a witness. I have to interview them.”

“Of course you do.” Yet he sounded uncertain. He was going through a nightmare at the moment—nearly as bad as her mother’s—and he’d want his daughter, with her expertise and her connections, nearby.

But she couldn’t get images of Tammy Foster out of her mind, lying in the trunk, the water rising higher.

Images of Travis Brigham’s eyes too, cold and dark beneath their abundant brows, as he gazed at his father, as if his character in a game, armed with knife or sword, was debating stepping out of the synth world and into the real, to slaughter the man.

She had to go. And now. “I’m sorry.” She hugged her father.

“Your mother will understand.”

Dance ran to her car and started the engine. As she was pulling out of the parking lot she glanced in the rearview mirror and saw her mother emerge from the door to the lockup. Edie stared at her daughter’s departure. The woman’s eyes were still, her face revealing no emotion.

Dance’s foot slipped to the brake. But then she pressed down once more on the accelerator and hit the grille flashers.

Your mother will understand….

No, she won’t, Dance thought. She absolutely won’t.