Wes, on his phone, nodded a cheerful greeting with a smile to both mother and boyfriend.

Dance and Maggie went to work, wrangling breakfast—including honey for the French toast, of course. Dance glanced toward Wes. “Who?” she whispered, nodding at the phone.

“Donnie.”

“Say hi for me and then hang up.”

Wes said hi, kept talking, then under her gaze clicked off.

O’Neil, who may very well have spent the night with Ms. Ex-O’Neil, kept his eyes on the juice. From his solid frame, a dozen kinesic messages were firing like cylinders in a sports car.

Or a white SUV, made by the Lexus division of Toyota Motors.

Enough, she told herself.

Let it go…

Boling made coffee. “Michael?” Lifting a cup.

“Sure.” Then he added to Dance, “Something’s come up. That’s what I was trying to get in touch with you about.”

“Solitude Creek?”

“Right.”

Dance didn’t need to glance at the children, from whom she kept most aspects of her job. It was O’Neil who nodded toward the front hall. She told Maggie to set the table. Boling grilled the toast and made bacon. Wes had taken to texting again but Dance said nothing about it.

As she followed O’Neil, she realized that her top button was undone; she’d been distracted earlier. She fixed it with a gesture she tried to make casual but that she was sure drew attention to the V of flesh, dotted with faint freckles. And silently gave a word of thanks to whatever impulse had told her not to go with the robe and lacey VS gown underneath it before heading downstairs.

“There’s a lead we ought to follow up on. Out of town.”

“The unsub’s Honda?”

“No. The alert we’ve got for online activity.”

She and O’Neil had spoken to Amy Grabe, San Francisco, and she had the FBI’s powerful online monitoring network search for any references to either of the two attacks. It was not unheard of for witnesses to unintentionally post helpful information about crimes; there had even been instances when the perp had bragged about his cleverness. Social media was now an important law enforcement tool. “Last night, somebody posted a clip on Vidster.”

Dance knew it. A YouTube competitor.

“What was it?”

“Some of the press footage—shot of a TV screen—of the roadhouse. And stills of other incidents.”

“Others?”

“Not related to what happened here. It was a rant by somebody named Ahmed. He said this is what Islam will do to the West, that sort of thing. Didn’t take credit for it exactly but we should check it out.”

“What other incidents?”

“Some foreign. A beheading of Christians in Iraq, a car bomb outside of Paris. A train wreck in New York, derailment. And then another stampede—a few years ago in Fort Worth. A nightclub.”

“I read about that. But the perp died in the incident. A homeless guy.”

“Well, Ahmed claims he was jihadist.”

O’Neil scrolled through his phone. He displayed some clips. Bodies close up, lying in their desperate still poses, asleep forever.