For a moment the girl's face was so dismayed that Dance felt alarm. What was this all about?
"Honey?"
A dark look.
"If you don't want to sing, you don't have to."
"I... Really?" Her face blossomed.
"Really. I'll call Mrs. Bendix."
"Tell her I have a sore throat."
"Mags. We don't lie."
"It gets sore sometimes."
"I'll tell her you're not comfortable singing. You can do the Bach invention on your violin. That's beautiful."
"Really? It's okay?"
"Of course."
"Even if..." Her voice faded and eyes fled to the tiny band-throated hummer, sipping sugar water.
"Even if what?"
"Nothing." The girl beamed. "Thanks, Mommy! Love you, love you!" She ran off, back to breakfast, happier than Dance had seen her in weeks.
Whatever was motivating her not to sing, Dance knew she'd made the right decision. As a mother, she knew you had to prioritize. And forcing her daughter to sing in a sixth-grade talent show was not an important issue. She called the girl's teacher and left a message, relaying the news. If there were any problem, Mrs. Bendix could call her back. Otherwise, they'd be at the school at six thirty tomorrow, violin in hand.
Dance returned to the kitchen table and just as she ate a bite of toast O'Neil's phone beeped. He took a look at the screen. "Got it."
"The address of the guy who posted?"
"His service area." He scooted back in the chair. "They're still working on his name and exact address."
"Jon," Dance began.
"I'll get the gang to practices," he said, smiling. "No worries."
Wes for tennis. Maggie'd taken up gymnastics--something she hadn't been interested in until her friend Bethany, the cheerleader, had suggested she try it.
"And Quiznos after," Boling told the kids. "Only be sure you don't tell your mother. Oh, oops!"
Maggie laughed. Wes gave a thumbs-up.
"Thanks." Dance kissed him.
O'Neil was on the phone now. "Really, okay. Good. Can you get a state plane?"
Plane?
He disconnected. "Got it."
"Where're we headed?" Dance wiped some honey from her finger.
"L.A. Well, south. Orange County."