“So, Maggie’s not singing in the talent show tonight?”

“No, she didn’t want to. I was going to push it but…” A shrug.

Stuart smiled. “Sometimes, you let it go.” He knew he’d made a pun on the song his granddaughter was going to have sung. Dance laughed, reflecting that the song title had become a theme of hers over the past few days.

“When’s brunch?” Wes called from the doorway, echoing his sister.

Dance glanced at her phone. Still no word from Boling. “We’ll get things started.”

She and Stuart walked into the kitchen. She Keuriged some coffee for them both and prowled through the fridge.

She glanced toward her son.

“No texting at the table.”

“We’re not eating yet.”

A look from Mom. The mobile disappeared into his back pocket.

“So, what’s on the wish list for brunch?”

Maggie: “Waf—”

“—cakes,” her brother chimed in.

“Wafcakes.”

Maggie poured an orange juice and sipped. “When are you going to get married?” Maggie asked, like a father to a pregnant daughter.

Stuart chuckled.

Dance froze. Then: “I’m too busy to be thinking about getting married.”

“Excuses, excuses, excuses… Are you marrying Jon or Michael?”

“What? Maggie!”

Then the phone was ringing. Wes was closest and he answered. “Hello?”

They weren’t supposed to answer with their name or “Dance residence.” Security starts early in a law enforcement household.

“Sure.” He looked at his sister. “For you. Bethany.”

Maggie took the cordless phone, looked at it then wandered off. Dance checked her own cell for updates. Nothing from Jon. She called him and the line went right to voice mail.

“Hey, it’s me. You on your way? Just checking.”

Dance disconnected and happened to glance toward her daughter on the landline. Bethany Meyer, the future secretary of state, was a precocious eleven-year-old, polite enough, though Dance thought of her as over assembled. She believed kids that age should wear jeans or shorts and T-shirts most of the time, not dress up as if they were going for movie auditions every day. Her parents were well off, true, but they sank way too much money into the girl’s clothes. And such fastidious makeup? On a girl her age? In a word, no.

Suddenly she noticed Maggie’s body language change abruptly. Her shoulders rose and her head drooped. One knee went forward—a sign of a subconscious, if not physical, desire to flee or fight. She was getting troubling news. The girl continued to talk a bit more and then she discriminated. She returned to the kitchen.

“Mags, everything all right?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Why not?” Jittery.

Dance looked at her sternly.

“Everything’s, like, fine.”

“Watch the ‘like.’ What did Bethany have to say?”

“Nothing. Just stuff.”

“Nothing?”

“Uh-uh.”

Dance fired off the second Mom look of the morning, which was conspicuously ignored, and began to assemble the ingredients for the meal.

“Blueberries?”

Maggie didn’t answer.

Dance repeated the question.

“Yeah, sure.”

Dance tried the proven tactic of diversion. “Hey, you all looking forward to the concert? Neil Hartman?”