"Pretty upset."

"It's like a circus. The newspaper stories. It made the news up there."

A hundred and thirty miles away? Well, Dance shouldn't've been surprised. Not with the prosecutor Robert Harper playing the media game.

"We've got a good attorney."

"If there's anything I can do…" The ends of Anne's metal belt tinkled like a wind chime in the breeze.

O'Neil called down to the beach, "Hey, guys, your mother's here. Come on!"

"Can't we stay, Dad?" Tyler pleaded.

"Nope. Time to get home. Come on."

Reluctantly the children trudged toward the adults. Maggie was dispensing shells. Dance was sure she'd be giving the good ones to the O'Neil children and her brother.

Wes and Maggie piled into Dance's Pathfinder for the short ride to the inn where her parents were staying. Once again, they'd spend the night with Edie and Stuart. The perp was dead, so the threat to her personally was gone, but Dance was adamant about finding Travis alive. She'd possibly be working late into the night.

They were halfway to the inn when Dance noticed that Wes had grown quiet.

"Hey, young man, what's up?"

"Just wondering."

Dance knew how to reel in details from reluctant children. The trick was patience. "About what?"

She was sure it had to do with his grandmother.

But it didn't.

"Is Mr. Boling coming over again?"

"Jon? Why?"

"Just, The Matrix's on TNT tomorrow. Maybe he hasn't seen it."

"I'll bet he has." Dance was always amused by the way children assumed that they're the first to experience something and that prior generations lived in sorrowful ignorance and deprivation. Mostly, though, she was surprised that the boy had even asked the question. "You like Mr. Boling?" she ventured.

"No…I mean, he's okay."

Maggie contradicted, "You said you liked him! You said he was neat. As neat as Michael."

"I did not."

"Yes, you did!"

"Maggie, you are so wrong!"

"All right," Dance commanded. But her tone was amused. In fact, there was something about the sibling bickering that she found comforting, a bit of normalcy in this turbulent time.

They arrived at the inn, and Dance was relieved to see that the protestors still had not found the location where her parents were hiding out. She walked Wes and Maggie to the front door. Her father greeted her. She hugged him hard and looked inside. Her mother was on the phone, focusing on what was apparently a serious conversation.

Dance wondered if she was talking to her sister, Betsey.

"Any word from Sheedy, Dad?"

"Nothing more, no. The arraignment's tomorrow afternoon." He brushed absently at his thick hair. "I heard you got the fellow, that killer. And the boy was innocent?"

"We're looking for him right now." Her voice lowered so the children couldn't hear. "Frankly, the odds are he's dead, but I'm hoping for the best." She hugged the man. "I've got to get back to the search now."

"Good luck, honey."

As she turned to leave she waved once more to her mother. Edie reciprocated with a distant smile and nod, then, still on the phone, gestured her grandchildren to her and gave them big hugs.

TEN MINUTES LATER Dance walked into her office, where a message awaited her.

A curt note from Charles Overby:

Could you send me the report on disposition of the Chilton blog case. All the details, sufficient for a meaningful announcement to the press. Will need within the hour. Thank you.

And you're welcome for a case solved, a perp dead and no more victims.

Overby was pissy, she supposed, because she'd refused to kowtow to Hamilton Royce, the fixer.

Who was about as far from George Clooney as one could be.

Meaningful announcement…

Dance composed a lengthy memo, giving the details of Greg Schaeffer's plan, how they'd learned of his identity and his death. She included information about the murder of Miguel Herrera, the deputy with the MCSO guarding the Chilton house, and the update on the all-out search for Travis.

She sent the memo off via email, hitting the mouse harder than usual.

TJ stuck his head in the door of her office. "You hear, boss?"

"About what in particular?"

"Kelley Morgan's regained consciousness. She'll live."

"Oh, that's so good to hear."

"Be a week or so in therapy, the deputy over there said. That stuff screwed up her lungs pretty bad, but she'll be okay, eventually. Looks like there won't be any brain damage."

"And what'd she say about ID'ing Travis?"

"He got her from behind, half strangled her. He whispered something about why'd she posted things about him? And then she passed out, woke up in the basement. Assumed it was Travis."

"So Schaeffer didn't want her to die. He set it up to make her think it was Travis but never let her see him."

"Makes sense, boss."

"And Crime Scene-at Schaeffer's and Chilton's? Any leads to where the boy might be?"

"Nothing yet. And no witnesses around the Cyprus Grove."

She sighed. "Keep at it."

The time was now after 6:00 p.m. She realized she hadn't eaten since breakfast. She rose and made for the lunchroom. She needed coffee and wanted something indulgent: homemade cookies or doughnuts. Maryellen's well in the Gals' Wing had run dry. At the least she could enter a negotiation with the temperamental vending machine: a rumpled dollar in exchange for a packet of toasted peanut butter crackers or Oreos.

As she stepped into the cafeteria she blinked. Ah, luck.

On a paper plate full of crumbs sat two oatmeal raisin cookies.

More of a miracle, the coffee was relatively fresh.

She poured a cup, added 2 percent milk and snagged a cookie. Exhausted, she plunked herself down at a table. She stretched and fished her iPod out of her pocket, mounting the ear buds and scrolling through the screen to find solace in more of Badi Assad's arresting Brazilian guitar.

She hit "Play," took a bite of cookie and was reaching for the coffee when a shadow hovered.

Hamilton Royce was looking down at her. His temporary ID was pinned to his shirt. The big man's arms hung at his sides.

Just what I need. If thoughts could sigh, hers would have been clearly audible.

"Agent Dance. Can I join you?"

She gestured to an empty chair, trying not to look too invitational. But she did pull out the ear buds.

He sat, the chair squeaking, plastic and metal in tension under his frame, and leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands clasped in front of him. This position generally signifies directness. She noted his suit again. The blue didn't work. Not dark enough. Or, alternatively, she thought unkindly, he should be wearing a sailor's hat with a shiny brim.

"I heard. The case is over, correct?"

"We've got the perp. We're still searching for the boy."

"For Travis?" Royce asked, surprised.

"That's right."

"But he's dead, don't you think?"

"No."

"Oh." A pause. "That's the one thing I regret," Royce said. "That's the worst of it all. That innocent boy."

Dance noted that this reaction, at least, was honest.

She said nothing more.

Royce offered, "I'll be headed back to Sacramento in a day or two. Look, I know we had some problems earlier… Well, disagreements. I wanted to apologize."

Decent of him, though she remained skeptical. She said, "We saw things differently. I didn't take any offense. Not personally."

But, professionally, she thought, I was totally pissed you tried to flank me.

"There was a lot of pressure from Sacramento. I mean, a lot. I got carried away in the heat of the moment." He looked away, partly embarrassed. And partly deceptive too; he didn't feel that bad, Dance noticed. But she gave him credit for trying to make nice. He continued, "Not often that you're in a situation like this, is it? Where you have to protect somebody as unpopular as Chilton." He didn't seem to expect an answer. He gave a hollow laugh. "You know something? In a funny way I've come to admire him."