Any other time she might have smiled; now her heart was racing.

“There’s something else.” He glanced back to her door. Still shut.

“I can see that. What’s it about?”

“Okay, it’s about, I guess you could say, us.”

Dance’s head rose and dipped slightly, a nod being one of the most ambiguous of gestures. It was often a defensive move, the meaning: I need to buy some time and toughen up the heart.

Because she knew what was coming next. Michael and Anne were getting back together. It happened more than one might think, reconciliations. Once the divorce papers had been signed, a little cooling off, the ex-wife’s lover turned into a creep or was duller than dull. Old hubby doesn’t seem so bad after all. They’d decided to clean house, roll up their sleeves and try again.

Why else would Anne have been there the other day, at CBI, with the kids? Dressed like the perfect mom from central casting. O’Neil’s comments: the sort-of babysitter, the plural pronoun about having plans the night of Maggie’s show.

“So, here’s the thing.”

Michael O’Neil’s eyes were fixed on a thoroughly ugly yellow ceramic cat that Maggie had squeezed together in first grade.

Dance’s eyes were unwaveringly on his.

Chapter 92

Her house beckoned.

The Victorian glowed, thanks to subdued sconces near the door and, from inside, light paled to old bone by the curtains. Dots of white Christmas lights around an occasional window or clustering on a plant added to the ambience of magic. The illumination was lopsided but no matter; Dance had never felt the need to be symmetrical.

Kathryn Dance shut the SUV’s engine off but remained where she was, fingers enwrapping the wheel tightly. They trembled.

Wes…

Playing cop, Wes.

Lord, lord… He might’ve been killed by Goldschmidt. A Beretta shotgun, O’Neil had reported. Those weapons are works of art, yes, but their purpose is to kill. And they make such fine work of it.

Releasing the wheel finally. Her palms cooled from the departing sweat.

Rehearsing what she’d say to her son. It was going to be a lengthy discussion.

Then, of course, her thoughts returned to what Michael O’Neil had said.

Look, as if what I just told you wasn’t enough…

Well, isn’t that always the case? The conversations you don’t want to have, can’t have, refuse to have…they happen on their own, and usually at the worst possible moments. She was still nearly paralyzed with dismay. Deep breath, a dozen more.

Dance finally climbed out of the Pathfinder and walked onto the porch, key out.

She didn’t need to do any unlatching, however. The door opened and Jon Boling stood before her, in jeans and a black polo shirt. She realized his hair was a little longer. It would have been that way for the past week, of course, and she thought: Something else I missed. Missed completely.

Well, it had been one hell of a week.

“Hey,” he said.

They kissed and she walked inside.