“And that was supposedly the work of some terror cell?”

“More or less.”

“Have we got his address?”

“Not yet. Soon, the tech people said.”

“Mom!” Maggie called.

“Be right there.”

He slipped the phone away and they walked into the kitchen. O’Neil said, “I should go.”

“Aw, no, stay!” Wes said.

Dance said nothing.

“Yeah, Michael. Pleeeease.” Maggie was in her persuasive mode.

Boling said, “Come on, have something. It’s Kathryn’s secret recipe.”

She said, “Eggs, milk. But don’t tell anybody.”

“Sure, I guess.”

They all sat at the table and Dance dished up.

Wes said, “Wow, I saw on the news that guy did another one.”

Dance said, “It looks that way.”

“Did another what?” Maggie asked.

“Hurt some people at the Bay View Center.”

Her daughter asked quietly, “Did anybody die?”

Dance never overexplained but she always answered their questions truthfully and directly. “Yes.”

“Oh.”

They ate in silence for a while. Dance had little appetite. Boling and O’Neil did. So did Wes.

She sipped coffee and noted that Maggie was troubled again and was now picking at her French toast.

“Honey?” she whispered, lowering her head. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m just not hungry anymore.”

“Drink your juice.”

She had a minuscule sip. Her face was now very clouded. After a moment she said, “Mom? I was thinking.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Dance glanced at the others and then said to her daughter, “Let’s go on the Deck.”

The girl rose and with a glance toward Boling, then Michael, Dance followed her outside. She knew that the serious conversation, postponed the other night, was now going to happen.

“Come on, hon. Tell me. You’ve been sad for a long time now.”

The girl looked at a hummingbird, hovering over the feeder.

“I don’t think I want to sing that song tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t. Megan’s not performing.”

“Megan just had her appendix out. Your whole class is doing something.”

The name of the show was Mrs. Bendix’s Sixth Grade Class’s Got Tal­ent!, which told it all. There were to be skits, dance performances, piano recitals, violin solos. Her teacher had persuaded Maggie to sing after she’d performed a perfect solo of “America the Beautiful” at an assembly.

“I keep forgetting the words.”

“Really?” Dance’s tone called her on the lie.

“Well, like, sometimes I forget them.”

“We’ll work on it together. I’ll get the Martin out. Okay? It’ll be fun.”

For a moment the girl’s face was so dismayed that Dance felt alarm. What was this all about?

“Honey?”

A dark look.

“If you don’t want to sing, you don’t have to.”

“I… Really?” Her face blossomed.

“Really. I’ll call Mrs. Bendix.”

“Tell her I have a sore throat.”

“Mags. We don’t lie.”

“It gets sore sometimes.”

“I’ll tell her you’re not comfortable singing. You can do the Bach invention on your violin. That’s beautiful.”

“Really? It’s okay?”

“Of course.”

“Even if…” Her voice faded and eyes fled to the tiny band-throated hummer, sipping sugar water.