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For a long, thick moment, pity and loathing were balanced within her.
Then she saw Travis's avatar staring her down and lifting his sword.
like really w4nt to learn, what can u t33ch me?
2 die . . .
Next to her the warm body shifted slightly, and she wondered if she was giving off minuscule tensions that disturbed sleep. She was trying to remain motionless, but that, as a kinesics expert, she knew was impossible. Asleep or waking, if our brain functioned, our bodies moved.
The wheel spun on.
Her mother, and the euthanasia case, now paused at the top. Though she'd asked Edie to call when they got back to the inn, she hadn't. This hurt, but didn't surprise, Dance.
Then the wheel spun again and the J. Doe case in Los Angeles paused at the apogee. What would come of the immunity hearing? Would it be delayed again? And the ultimate outcome? Ernie Seybold was good. But was he good enough?
Dance honestly didn't know.
This musing in turn led to thoughts of Michael O'Neil. She understood there were reasons that he hadn't been able to be here tonight. But his not calling? That was unusual.
The Other Case . . .
Dance laughed at the jealousy.
She occasionally tried to picture herself and O'Neil together, had he not been married to svelte and exotic Anne. On the one hand, it was too easy. They'd spent days together on cases, and the hours moved by seamlessly. The conversation flowed, the humor. Yet they also disagreed, sometimes to the point of anger. But she believed their passionate disagreements only added to what they had together.
Whatever that was.
Her thoughts wheeled on, unstoppable.
Click, click, click . . .
At least until they stopped at Professor Jonathan Boling.
And beside her the soft breathing became a soft rattle.
"Okay, that's it," Dance said, rolling onto her other side. "Patsy!"
The flat-coat retriever stopped snoring as she awoke and lifted her head off the pillow.
"On the floor," Dance commanded.
The dog stood, assessed that no food or ball playing figured in the deal and leapt off the bed to join her companion, Dylan, on the shabby rug they used as a futon, leaving Dance once more alone in bed.
Jon Boling, she reflected. Then decided perhaps it was better not to spend much time on him.
Not just yet.
In any case, at that moment, her musings vanished as the mobile phone by the bed, sitting next to her weapon, trilled.
Instantly, she flipped the light on, shoved her glasses on her nose and laughed, seeing the Caller ID.
"Jon," she said.
"Kathryn," Boling said. "I'm sorry to call so late."
"It's okay. I wasn't asleep. What's up? Stryker?"
"No. But there's something you have to see. The blog--The Chilton Report. You better go online now."
