Patsy and Dylan wandered out onto the Deck. Molecules of roast beef aroma carry far on nights like this. They plopped down and Boling furtively, but not too, slipped them bits. He asked Dance, "Okay, how bad was it?"
She lowered her head, sipped wine again.
He said, "You didn't want to talk about it. But maybe you do."
"It's bad, Jon. This guy, we don't have a clue what he's up to. Tonight--did you hear the news?"
"Gunman but he wasn't actually shooting people. Just making them panic. They jumped into the water. Four or five dead."
Dance fell silent, looked out over the tiny amber lights in the backyard. She leaned back, a bone somewhere in her shoulder popped. Didn't used to happen. She stared up through the pines at the stars. This was the peninsula of fog but there were moments where the temperature and moisture partnered to turn the air into glass and with little ambient illumination here, you sometimes could peer up through a tunnel between the pines and see to the start of the universe.
"Stay," she said.
Boling looked down at the dogs. They were asleep.
He glanced at her.
A smile. "You. Not them."
"Stay?"
"The night."
He didn't need to say "But the children."
Kathryn Dance was not somebody you needed to remind when it came to the obvious.
And he didn't need to hesitate. He leaned over and kissed her hard. Her hand went around his neck and she pulled him to her.
Neither asked about finishing dinner. They picked up their half-finished plates and carried them inside to the sink, then Dance ushered the dogs in, and she locked the doors.
Boling took her hand and led her up the stairs.
SATURDAY, APRIL 8
Flash Mob
Chapter 36
The alarm went off at seven thirty.
A classical tune--Dance, a musician, never did well with dissonance. It was the "Toccata and Fugue." Phantom of the Opera, no, not that one. An earlier version.
She opened her eyes and fumbled for the Stop button.
Yes, it was Saturday. But the unsub was still out there. Time to get up.
Then turned to see Jon Boling brush back his thinning hair. He wasn't self-conscious; it was only that strands were sticking out sideways. He wore only a T-shirt, gray, which she vaguely remembered him pulling on somewhere north of midnight. She was in a Victoria's Secret thing, silk and pink and just a little outrageous. Because, how often?
He kissed her forehead.
She kissed his mouth.
No regrets about his staying. None at all.
She'd wondered how she'd feel in the morning about his staying. Yet even now, hearing the creak of a door downstairs, a latch, muted voices, the tink-tink of cereal bowls, she knew it was the right decision. Time to step forward. They'd been dating a year, a little more. She now marshaled arguments and prepared a public relations campaign for the children, thought about what they would and wouldn't think, say, do when they saw a man come down the stairs. They'd have a clue about what had been going on; Dance had already had the Talk with them, several years ago. (The reactions: Maggie had nodded matter-of-factly, as if confirming what she'd known for years. Wes had blushed furiously and finally, encouraged to ask a question, any question, about the process, wondered, "Aren't there, like, any other ways?" Dance, struggling to keep a straight face.) So. They were about to confront the fact that Mom had had a man stay over, albeit a man they knew well, liked and who was more a relative to them than her own sister was an aunt (flighty, charming and occasionally exasperating New Age Betsey lived in the hills of Santa Barbara).
Let's see what the next half hour holds.