Edie Dance and her daughter cast glances each other's way, acknowledging Millar's death but not specifically referring to the tragedy. Edie and Kellogg greeted each other, and exchanged a similar look.

"Mom, Carly moved Mr. Bledsoe's wastebasket!" Maggie told her breathlessly. "And every time he threw something out it went on the floor."

"Did you keep from giggling?"

"For a while. But then Brendon did and we couldn't stop."

"Say hello to Agent Kellogg."

Maggie did. But Wes only nodded. His eyes shifted away. Dance saw the aversion immediately.

"You guys want hot chocolate?" she asked.

"Yay!" Maggie cried. Wes said he would too.

Dance patted her jacket pockets. Coffee was gratis but anything fancier took cash, and she'd left all of hers in her purse in her office; Edie had no change.

"I'll treat," Kellogg said, digging into his pocket.

Wes said quickly, "Mom, I want coffee instead."

The boy had sipped coffee once or twice in his life and hated it.

Maggie said, "I want coffee too."

"No coffee. It's hot chocolate or soda." Dance supposed that Wes didn't want something that the FBI agent paid for. What was going on here? Then she remembered how his eyes had scanned Kellogg on the Deck the other night. She thought he'd been looking for his weapon; now she understood he'd been sizing up the man Mom had brought to his grandfather's party. Was Winston Kellogg the new Brian, in his eyes?

"Okay," her daughter said, "chocolate."

Wes muttered, "That's okay. I don't want anything."

"Come on, I'll loan it to your mom," Kellogg said, dispensing the coins.

The children took them, Wes reluctantly and only after his sister did.

"Thanks," Wes said.

"Thank you very much," Maggie offered.

Edie poured coffee. They sat at the unsteady table. Kellogg thanked Dance's mother again for the dinner the previous night and asked about Stuart. Then he turned to the children and wondered aloud if they liked to fish.

Maggie said sort of. She didn't.

Wes loved to but responded, "Not really. You know, it's boring."

Dance knew the agent had no motive but breaking the ice, his question probably inspired by his conversation with her father at the party about fishing in Monterey Bay. She noted some stress reactions-he was trying too hard to make a good impression, she guessed.

Wes fell silent and sipped his chocolate while Maggie inundated the adults with the morning's events at music camp, including a rerun, in detail, of the trash can caper.

The agent found herself irritated that the problem with Wes had reared its head yet again…and for no good reason. She wasn't even dating Kellogg.

But Dance knew the tricks of parenting and in a few minutes had Wes talking enthusiastically about his tennis match that morning. Kellogg's posture changed once or twice and the body language told Dance that he too was a tennis player and wanted to contribute. But he'd caught on that Wes was ambivalent about him and he smiled as he listened, but didn't add anything.

Finally Dance told them she needed to get back to work, she'd walk them out. Kellogg told her he was going to check in with the San Francisco field office.

"Good seeing you all." He waved.

Edie and Maggie said good-bye to him. After a moment Wes did too-only so he wouldn't be outdone by his sister, Dance sensed.

The agent wandered off up the hallway toward his temporary office.

"Are you coming to Grandma's for dinner?" Maggie asked.

"I'm going to try, Mags." Never promise if there's a chance you can't deliver.

"But if she can't," Edie said, "what're you in the mood for?"

"Pizza," Maggie said fast. "With garlic bread. And mint chocolate chip for dessert."

"And I want a pair of Ferragamos," Dance said.

"What're those?"

"Shoes. But what we want and what we get are sometimes two different things."

Her mother put another offer on the table. "How's a big salad? With blackened shrimp?"

"Sure."

Wes said, "That'll be great." The children were infinitely polite with their grandparents.

"But I think garlic bread can be arranged," Edie added, which finally pried a smile from him.

Outside the CBI office, one of the administrative clerks was on his way to deliver documents to the Monterey County Sheriff's Office in Salinas.

He noticed a dark car pulling into the lot. The driver, a young woman wearing sunglasses despite the fog, scanned the parking lot. She's uneasy about something, the clerk thought. But, of course, you got that a lot here: people who'd come in voluntarily as suspects or reluctant complaining witnesses. The woman looked at herself in the mirror, pulled on a cap and climbed out. She didn't go to the front door. Instead she approached him.

"Excuse me?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"This is the California Bureau of Investigation?"

If she'd looked at the building she would've seen the large sign that repeated four of the words in her question. But, being a good public servant, he said, "That's right. Can I help you?"

"Is this the office where Agent Dance works?"

"Kathryn Dance. Yes."

"Is she in now?"

"I don't-" The clerk looked across the lot and barked a laugh. "Well, guess what, miss? That's her, right over there, the younger woman."

He saw Dance with her mother and the two kids, whom the clerk had met on a couple of occasions.

"Okay. Thank you, Officer."

The clerk didn't correct her. He liked being misidentified as a real law enforcer. He got into his car and pulled out of the driveway. He happened to glance in the rearview mirror and saw the woman standing just where he'd left her. She seemed troubled.

He could've told her she didn't need to be. Kathryn Dance, in his opinion, was one of the nicest people in the whole of the CBI.

Dance closed the door of her mother's Prius hybrid. It hummed out of the lot and the agent waved good-bye.

She watched the silver car negotiate the winding road toward Highway 68. She was troubled. She kept imagining Juan Millar's voice in her head.

Kill me…

The poor man.

Although his brother's lashing out had nothing to do with it, Kathryn Dance did feel guilty that she'd picked him to go check on what was happening in the lockup. He was the most logical one, but she wondered if, being younger, he'd been more careless than a more experienced officer might've been. It was impossible to think that Michael O'Neil, or big Albert Stemple, or Dance herself would have let Pell get the upper hand.

Turning back toward the building, she was thinking of the first few moments of the fire and the escape. They'd had to move so quickly. But should she have waited, thought out her strategy better?

Second-guessing. It went with the territory of being a cop.

Returning to the building, humming Julieta Venegas's music. The notes were swirling through her thoughts, intoxicating-and taking her away from Juan Millar's terrible wounds and terrible words and Susan Pemberton's death…and her son's eyes, flipping from cheerful to stony the moment the boy had seen Dance with Winston Kellogg.

What to do about that?

Dance continued through the deserted parking lot toward the front door of CBI, glad that the rain had stopped.

She was nearing the stairs when she heard a scrape of footstep on the asphalt and turned quickly to see that a woman had come up behind her, silently until now. She was a mere six or so feet away, walking directly toward her.

Dance stopped fast.

The woman did too. She shifted her weight.

"Agent Dance…I…"

Neither spoke for a moment.

Then Samantha McCoy said, "I've changed my mind. I want to help."