Very troubling. Not Julio Millar, of course. She could handle him. It was the young detective's hopelessness that upset her so deeply.
Kill me . . .
Dance asked, "Did Betsey call?"
/> "Ah, your sister can't be here," Edie said in a breezy tone, whose subtext was irritation that their younger daughter wouldn't make the four-hour drive from Santa Barbara for her father's birthday party. Of course, with the Pell manhunt ongoing, Dance probably wouldn't've driven there, had the situation been reversed. According to an important rule of families, though, hypothetical transgressions aren't offenses, and that Dance was present, even by default, meant that, this time, Betsey earned the black mark.
They returned to the Deck and Maggie asked, "Mom, can we let Dylan and Patsy out?"
"We'll see." The dogs could be a little boisterous at parties. And tended to get too much human food for their own good.
"Where's your brother?"
"In his room."
"What's he doing?"
"Stuff."
Dance locked the weapon away for the party--an MCSO deputy on security detail was parked outside. She showered fast and changed.
She found Wes in the hallway. "No, no T-shirt. It's your grandfather's birthday."
"Mom. It's clean."
"Polo. Or your blue-and-white button-down." She knew the contents of his closet better than he did.
"Oh, okay."
She looked closely at his downcast eyes. His demeanor had nothing to do with a change of shirt.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing."
"Come on, spill."
"Spill?"
"It's from my era. Tell me what's on your mind."
"Nothing."
"Go change."
Ten minutes later she was setting out mounds of luscious appetizers, offering a silent prayer of thanks to Trader Joe's.
In a dress shirt, cuffs buttoned and tails tucked, Wes strafed past and grabbed a handful of nuts. A whiff of aftershave followed. He looked good. Being a parent was a challenge, but there was plenty to be proud of too.
"Mom?" He tossed a cashew into the air. Caught it in his mouth.
"Don't do that. You could choke."
"Mom?"
"What?"
"Who's coming tonight?"