Pretty and, yes, far easier.

A glance at his watch. He’d be back to Dance’s in thirty minutes this way. He turned the bike down the steep hill and caught a glimpse of the ocean, beach, rocks, shrouded in mist, ahead of him in the distance.

What a view.

He pushed off, keeping tension on the rear brake mostly—the incline was so severe that hitting the front one alone would catapult him head over heels if he had to stop fast. It seemed to him that the rear responded slowly, wobbling with some vibration. It felt different from when he’d biked here, just minutes ago. But the sensation was simply a rough patch of asphalt, he was sure. Or maybe even his imagination. Now, no traffic in front, he let up on the brake handles. The speed increased and Boling enjoyed the wind streaming against his face, enjoyed the hum it made in his helmet. Thinking of the box inside his pocket.

<p>The Kathryn Dance Situation has been resolved.</p>

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Chapter 58

Dance and her father were on the Deck this warm Sunday afternoon, pleasant, though under gray skies—overcast for a change, no fog. Natives knew the difference. As often on the Peninsula, the sky promised rain but deceived. The drought grew worse every year. Solitude Creek, for instance, had at one point been eight, nine feet deep, she’d learned. Now it was a quarter that. Less in some places.

She thought again about the reeds and grass, the decaying buildings behind the parking lot on the shores of the creek.

Annette, the sobbing witness.

Trish, the motherless child.

The bodies in the roadhouse, the blood. The stain in the shape of a heart.

She was talented…

Picturing Solitude Creek itself, the gray expanse of water, bordered by reeds and grasses.

It was then that she had a thought. “Excuse me a sec,” she said to Stuart.

“Sure, honey.”

She pulled out her phone and texted Rey Carreneo with yet another assignment.

He responded as crisply as his starched, highly ironed shirts.

K, Kathryn. On it right now.

She put her phone away.

“When’s brunch?” Maggie asked, poking her head out the door.

“Jon’ll be home anytime.” She looked at her Timex. He was ten minutes late. It wasn’t like him not to call.

“K.” The girl vanished.

Her phone hummed.

Maybe that’s him. But no.

“TJ.”

He and several MCSO deputies had been systematically contacting venues with public performances or large social events and asking them to cancel.

“I think we’ve got most of the big ones. Concerts, church services, plays, sports events—praise the Lord it’s not March Madness, or we’d have riots on our hands. By the way, boss, I am not the most popular man on the Peninsula—in the eyes of the Chamber of Commerce and assorted wedding parties, persona non grata. The Robertsons are not inviting me to the rescheduled reception.”

Dance thanked him and they disconnected.

Stuart asked, “How’s it going?”

She shrugged. “Ruining people’s Sunday.”