She gave him the address and a time.

They disconnected.

As Dance stood beside her car in the hospital parking lot she noticed several aides and nurses leaving for the day. They were staring at her.

Dance knew several of them and smiled. One or two nodded in greeting but the response was tepid, if not chilly. Of course, she realized, they'd be thinking: I'm looking at the daughter of a woman who might have committed mu

rder.

Chapter 22

"I'LL CARRY THE groceries," Maggie announced as Dance's Pathfinder squealed to a stop in front of their house.

The girl had been feeling independent lately. She grabbed the largest bag. There were four of them; after picking up the children at Martine's, they'd stopped at Safeway for a shopping frenzy. If everyone she'd invited showed up, the dinner party would include nearly a dozen people, among them youngsters with serious appetites.

Listing under the weight of two bags gripped in one hand--an older-brother thing--Wes asked his mother, "When's Grandma coming over?"

"In a little while, I hope. . . . There's a chance she might not come."

"No, she said she's coming."

Dance gave a confused smile. "You talked to her?"

"Yeah, she called me at camp."

"Me too," Maggie offered.

So she'd called to reassure the children she was all right. But Dance's face flushed. Why hadn't she called her?

"Well, it's great she'll be able to make it."

They carried the bags inside.

Dance went into her bedroom, accompanied by Patsy.

She glanced at the gun lockbox. Travis was expanding his targets, and he knew she was one of the officers pursuing him. And she couldn't forget the possible threat--the cross--in her backyard last night. Dance decided to keep the weapon with her. Ever-fastidious about weapons in a household with children, though, she locked the black gun away for a few minutes to take a shower. She stripped off her clothes energetically and stepped into the stream of hot water--trying unsuccessfully to flush away the residue of the day.

She dressed in jeans and an oversize blouse, not tucked in, to obscure the weapon, which sat against the small of her back. Uncomfortable, yet a comfort. Then she hurried into the kitchen.

She fed the dogs and put out a small brushfire between the children, who were sniping over their predinner tasks. Dance stayed patient--she knew they were upset about the incident at the hospital yesterday. Maggie's job was to unpack the groceries, while Wes straightened up for guests. Dance continued to be amazed at how cluttered a house could become, even though only three people lived there.

She thought now, as she often did, about the time when the population was four. And glanced at her wedding picture. Bill Swenson, prematurely gray, lean and with an easy smile, looked out at the camera with his arm around her.

Then she went into the den, booted up her computer and emailed Overby about the assault on Chilton and the confrontation with Brubaker.

She wasn't in the mood to talk to him.

Then Dance retrieved Jon Boling's email with the names of people who'd posted comments favorable to Chilton over the past months. Seventeen.

Could be worse, she supposed.

She spent the next hour finding the numbers of those within a hundred miles and calling to warn them they might be in danger. She weathered their criticism, some of it searing, about the CBI and the police not being able to stop Travis Brigham.

Dance logged on to that day's Chilton Report.

https://www.thechiltonreport.com/html/june27.html

She scrolled through all the threads, noting that new posts had appeared in nearly all of them. The latest contributors to the Reverend Fisk and the desalination threads were taking their respective causes seriously--and with intensifying anger. But none of their posts compared to the vicious comments in the "Roadside Crosses" thread, most of them unleashing undiluted fury at each other, as much as at Travis.

Tags: Jeffery Deaver Kathryn Dance Mystery
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