I told Ryan about Ricky Don Dorton’s demise, about my discussions with Hershey Zamzow concerning bear poaching and the missing wildlife agents, and about Jansen’s goldenseal findings. He asked if I’d reported the Grim Reaper e-mails to Slidel or Rinaldi. I assured him that I had, and that they were increasing surveil ance of my place and Lija’s town house.

Each time we disconnected, the annex felt oddly empty. Ryan was gone, his belongings, his smel , his laugh, his cooking. Though he’d only been in my home a short time, his presence had fil ed the place. I missed him. A lot. Much more than I ever would have imagined.

Otherwise, I puttered, as my mother would cal it. Runs and walks with Boyd. Talks with Birdie. Hair conditioning. Eyebrow plucking. Plant watering.

Always with an eye to my back. An ear to the air for strange noises.

Saturday Katy talked me into a late-night soiree at Amos’s to listen to a band named Weekend Excursion. The group was punchy, talented, and powerful enough to be picked up by instruments in deserts listening for signs of life in space. The crowd stood and listened, enthral ed. At one point I screamed a question into Katy’s ear.

“Doesn’t anyone dance?”

“A few geeks might.”

The old ABBA song “Dancing Queen” ran through my head.

Times change.

After Amos’s, we had nightcaps one door over at a pub cal ed the Gin Mil . Perrier and lime for me, a Grey Goose martini for Katy. Straight up. Dirty. With extra olives. My daughter was definitely a big girl now.

On Sunday we did manicure-pedicure mother-daughter bonding, then hit golf bal s on the driving range at Carmel Country Club.

Katy had been a star on the Carmel swim team, semi-swimming her first lane rope-clinging freestyle at age four. She’d grown up on Carmel’s golf courses and tennis courts, hunted Easter eggs, and watched Fourth of July fireworks on its lawns.

Pete and I had feasted on Carmel buffets, danced under the twirling New Year’s Eve globes, drunk champagne, admired the ice sculptures. Many of our closest friendships had been formed at the club.

Though I remained legal y married, entitling me to use of al facilities, it felt strange to be there, like revisiting a vaguely remembered place. The people I saw were like visions in a dream, familiar yet distant.

That evening Katy and I ordered pizza and watchedMeet the Parents.I didn’t ask if there was significance to her movie selection. Nor did I query the weekend whereabouts of Palmer Cousins.

Monday morning I rose early and checked my e-mail.

Stil no photos from Cagle or messages from the Grim Reaper.

After spinning Boyd around the block, I headed to the MCME, confident that the Cagle report would be on my desk.

No fax.