“Michael.”

“It’s seven twenty, so following his profile, he could attack at any time. He waits for the show to start and—”

“It’s outside.”

“I…what?”

“The show? Maggie’s concert? We’re on the soccer field behind the school. We’re not in the gym or the assembly hall.”

“Oh. Outside.”

“No risk of confinement. Stampede.”

“No.”

“Even the green room—it’s just a curtained-off area outside.”

“You’re outside,” he repeated.

“Right. But thanks.”

“Well… Good.” After a pause he said, “And tell Maggie good luck. I wish I could be there.”

“’Night, Michael.”

They disconnected.

Outside…

The relief in his voice had been so dramatic, it was nearly comical.

Then she turned her attention back to her daughter.

“Honey, Mags… Listen. I need you to tell me something. Whatever it is, is fine.”

“Huh?”

“I know why you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset.” Maggie looked down at her crisp, shiny dress and smoothed it. One of her more common kinesic tells.

“I think you are. You’re not happy about performing.”

“Yes, I am.”

“There’s something else. Tell me.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Listen to me. We love each other and sometimes it’s not good enough for people who love each other to say that. They have to talk. Tell me the truth. Why don’t you want to sing?”

Maybe, Dance wondered, the Secrets Club and queen bitch Bethany were forcing her daughter to throw a pie at the teacher or a water balloon. Even worse? She thought of Stephen King’s Carrie, drenching the girl in blood onstage.

“Honey?” Dance said softly.

Maggie looked at her, then away and gasped, “Oh, Mommy! It’s terrible.”

The girl burst into racking tears.

Chapter 72

Kathryn Dance sat next to Jon Boling and her son in the third row, her parents nearby, watching the procession of performers in Mrs. Bendix’s Sixth Grade Class’s Got Talent!

“How you doing there?” Dance whispered to Boling. It was astonishing how many forgotten lines, missed dance steps and off-tone notes could be crammed into one hour.

“Better than any reality show on TV,” Boling responded.

True, Dance conceded. He’d managed, yet again, to bring a new perspective to the table.

There’d been several scenes from plays, featuring three or four students together (the class numbered thirty-six), which cut the show’s running time down considerably. And solo performances were hardly full-length Rachmaninoff piano concerti. They tended to be Suzuki pieces or abbreviated Katy Perry hits.

“The Cup Song” had been performed six times.

It was close to eight thirty when Maggie’s turn came. Mrs. Bendix announced her and in her shimmering dress, the girl walked confidently from the wings.

Dance took a deep breath. She found her hand gripping Boling’s, the bandaged one. Hard. He adjusted it.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

He kissed her hair.

At the microphone, she looked over the audience. “I’m Maggie and I’m going to sing ‘Let It Go,’ from Frozen, which is a super movie, in my opinion better than The Lego Movie and most of the Barbie ones. And if anybody here hasn’t seen it I think you should. Like, right away. I mean, right away.”