Chilton greeted this with grim silence, then asked, “Just because he posted something agreeing with me?” She nodded. “And that leads me to something else I’ve been worried about. That Travis might be after you.” “But what argument does he have with me? I haven’t said a word about him.” She continued, “He’s targeted somebody who’s supporting you. And the extension of that is that he’s angry with you too.” “You really think so?” “I think we can’t afford to dismiss it.” “But my family’s—” “I’ve ordered a car stationed outside your house. A deputy from the sheriff’s office.” “Thank you…thank you. I’ll tell Pat and the boys to be on the lookout for anything odd.” “You’re all right?” She nodded at the bandage. “It’s nothing.” “You need a ride home?” “Pat’s coming to pick me up.” Dance started outside. “Oh, and for God’s sake, leave Brubaker alone.” Chilton’s eyes narrowed. “But do you know the effects that plant is going to have…” He fell silent and held up two hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’ll stay off his property.” “Thank you.” Dance walked outside and turned her phone back on. It rang thirty seconds later. Michael O’Neil. She was comforted to see his number pop up. “Hey.” “I just heard a report. Chilton. He was attacked?” “He’s fine.” She explained what had happened. “Trespassing. Serves him right. I called the office. They’re getting the crime scene report back from the Strickland shooting. I pushed ’em to get it done fast. But nothing really helpful jumps out.” “Thanks.” Dance then lowered her voice—amusing herself because she did so—and told O’Neil about the curious encounter with Hamilton Royce. “Great. Too many cooks screwing up the broth.” “I’d like to put them in the broth,” Dance muttered. “And turn up the heat.” “And this Royce wants to shut down the blog?” “Yep. Worried about the public relations is my take.” O’Neil offered, “I almost feel sorry for Chilton.”‘ “Spend ten minutes with him; you’ll feel different.” The deputy chuckled. “I was going to call you anyway, Michael. I’ve asked Mom and Dad over tonight for dinner. She needs the support. Love it if you could come.” She added, “You and Anne and the kids.” A pause. “I’ll try. I’m really swamped on this Container Case. And Anne went up to San Francisco. A gallery’s going to be hanging a show of her recent photos.” “Really? That’s impressive.” Dance recalled the one-sided conversation yesterday about Anne O’Neil’s impending trip at their attempted breakfast after meeting with Ernie Seybold. Dance had several opinions about the woman, the most unblemished of which had to do with her talent as a photographer. They disconnected and Dance continued toward her car, unraveling the iPod ear buds. She needed a hit of music. She was scrolling through tunes, trying to decide on Latino or Celtic, when her phone buzzed. Caller ID announced Jonathan Boling. “Hi,” she said. “It’s all over the CBI here, Chilton was attacked. What happened? Is he all right?” She gave him the details. He was relieved nobody had been hurt seriously, but she could tell from his voice quality that he had some news for her. She fell silent and he asked, “Kathryn, you near the office?” “I wasn’t planning on heading back. I’ve got to pick up the kids and work from home for a while.” She didn’t tell him that she wanted to avoid Hamilton Royce and Overby. “Why?” “Couple things. I’ve got names of posters who’ve supported Chilton. The good news, I suppose, is that there aren’t a lot. But that’s typical. In blogs more people are contrarians than supporters.” “Email me the list, and I’ll start calling them from home. What else?” “We’ll have Travis’s computer cracked in the next hour or so.” “Really? Oh, that’s great.” Tiffany or Bambi was a pretty good hacker, apparently. “I’m going to mirror his disk on a separate drive. I thought you’d want to see it.” “You bet.” Dance had a thought. “You have plans tonight?” “No, I’ve put my cat burglary plans on hold while I’m helping you guys.” “Bring the computer over to my house. I’m having my mother and father and a few friends over for dinner.” “Well, sure.” She gave him the address and a time. They disconnected. As Dance stood beside her car in the hospital parking lot she noticed several aides and nurses leaving for the day. They were staring at her. Dance knew several of them and smiled. One or two nodded in greeting but the response was tepid, if not chill. Of course, she realized, they’d be thinking: I’m looking at the daughter of a woman who might have committed murder.