She thought about following him, chiding him further, changing her mind. Then she sighed. What was the use of one more argument?Let him be,she thought. Returning to the kitchen, Keely got on the phone, called Dr. Stover's office, and was able to make an appointment for the next day.

Later, when it was time to go to the Weavers', she ran a brush through her hair, then collected Abby's baby food and a few toys. It would be an early evening. When she had everything a.s.sembled, Keely called up the stairs to Dylan. "We're going," she said.

There was no acknowledgment from upstairs.

"Did you hear me?" she cried.

She heard the door to his room open. "I heard you. All right?"

"We'll be back by nine."

"Whatever," he said.

She thought of mentioning that she had finally reached Dr. Stover's office and made an appointment for tomorrow, but then she decided against it. This would have to be handled a step at a time. Calling out good-bye, she picked up Abby, then went out the front door, closing it behind her. As she walked down the path to the driveway, she glanced back at the house.

Dylan stood at the window of his room. He had pulled back the curtain-and was staring out at her.

She raised a hand to wave to him, but the moment she did, he let the curtain fall and vanished from her sight.

15.

That was a wonderful dinner," said Keely, scooping Abby and her toys up from the dining-room floor and following Betsy into the cozy den of the huge old colonial, which looked out over the bay. Lucas excused himself to make a few phone calls but promised to join them presently. The book-lined den, like the rest of the house, was furnished in comfortable sofas and chairs upholstered in Scalamandre fabrics, interspersed with gleaming, well-cared-for antiques. Behind the sofa and along the walls in custom-made cases, Lucas's collection of notched pistols, feather-trimmed arrows, deeds to mines, and humble mess kits was artfully arranged.

"Well, I'm glad you enjoyed it," said Betsy shyly. "We're so glad you could come."

Keely deposited Abby on the silk oriental rug with a prayer that the baby didn't damage anything. The cases were topped in gla.s.s, but Keely judged that the gla.s.s was too high for Abby to reach and break. She might get some grubby fingerprints on them, though. Betsy seemed unconcerned. Her life was littered with valuable things, and one could always be replaced by another.

Well, not always,Keely thought as she tucked herself into the corner of the loveseat opposite Betsy, who had taken out a bag of needlework and settled herself in an armchair beneath a bra.s.s pharmacy lamp. The table beside Betsy was a shrine to Prentice, who had, unfortunately, not taken after his handsome father. His silver-framed photos revealed a boy with small, rabbity eyes, a weak chin, and a large nose. By the time he reached manhood, he seemed to face the camera with a discomfort that bordered on terror, probably because he had come to dread the sight of himself in pictures. Still, as Keely lookedaround the room, she had to agree with Mark's a.s.sessment of his own place in this family. There were a few photos of Mark, placed at wide intervals around the room, but the images of Prentice, however homely, were cl.u.s.tered on every surface.

Betsy looked up from her needlework and caught Keely gazing at the gallery of photos. On the table beside her was one picture in which a well-groomed Prentice, wearing a suit, a boutonniere, and a broad smile, looked almost attractive. Beside him stood a fine-featured girl with the complexion of an English rose, looking up admiringly at him. Betsy picked up the photo and gazed at it, seeming almost puzzled. "He looked so handsome there," she said, searching his features in the photo for some clue to his troubled demise.

"Yes, he looked happy," Keely said truthfully.

"That was taken on his wedding day," said Betsy.

Keely nodded. She knew about Veronica. Three years after the wedding Veronica had run off with another man. That was when Prentice began to drink in earnest. "They made a nice couple," she said.

Betsy sighed. "It's hard for me to forgive her. She never explained why she chose another man, and she didn't even give Prentice a chance to win her back. It broke his heart."

"Oh, I understand," Keely said sympathetically.No wonder,she thought.Who could forgive a woman for that?"That was cruel," Keely observed.

Betsy sighed and ran a motherly fingertip around the cheek of his childhood photo. "You know, people envied him because he was born with money. They didn't realize that it never seemed to bring him any happiness. He might have been better off if he'd had to struggle in his life, the way Mark did."

Keely could not help thinking that few people would envy Mark's struggle. Orphaned at a young age, a history of foster homes and delinquency. It was the kind of life that would have defeated most people. She glanced wistfully over her shoulder at the smiling photo of Mark on another shelf, nestled in among other family mementos. Mark had found a place in this family that had earned him Betsy's kindness, some photos in the collection. But there was no mother to make a shrine forhim.Don't worry, darling,she thought,we'll always keep your memory alive.

"I still miss him so," Betsy said.

For a minute, Keely thought Betsy was referring to Mark, but then she looked over and saw Betsy still gazing at the photo of Prentice.

"I'm sure you do," said Keely earnestly.Yes,she thought,in spite of everything.She knew that Prentice had brought his parents nothing but grief, but a mother's love was unconditional. Your children couldn't turn you away from them, no matter how they tried. Her thoughts drifted to Dylan.

"You look so sad," said Betsy.

"Oh," Keely shook her head. "Speaking of sons, I was just thinking about Dylan. He's . . . he's having a rough time these days."

"Lucas told me. I think its a disgrace what they're trying to do," she said indignantly. "As if the child hadn't already suffered enough . . ."

"Amen," said Keely, appreciative of Betsy's outrage on Dylan's behalf. "I called a shrink on the advice of his school princ.i.p.al. Maybe it would help for him to have someone to talk to."

Betsy shuddered. "You're probably right. I'm not much for that sort of thing. But some people swear by it."

Keely knew that the stiff upper lip was still alive and well in the Weaver household. She wondered if the Weavers had ever tried to get help for Prentice, with all his problems. As if she had read Keely's mind, Betsy continued, "Prentice went to a psychiatrist for a while." Then she shook her head. "Nothing did any good. He was just someone who never seemed to be able to find his way."

Keely nodded, thinking how a lifetime of sadness was summed up in those words. Oh, she didn't want her own son to meet such a fate. "You know," she said, "I probably should be getting Abby home to bed. And check on Dylan."

"But she's being such an angel," Betsy exclaimed. Abby had made her way over to Betsy's chair and was tugging at the leg of her slacks. Betsy reached down and stroked her hair. "She's a beautiful child."

All the longing for a grandchild Keely had ever heard seemed to be contained in that one phrase.

"We'll come back, won't we, sweetheart?" Keely said, gathering up Abby's things.

At that moment Lucas came into the den. "What's this?" he cried. "Leaving already?"

Keely smiled at him. "We'd better. Thanks so much for having us. Betsy . . ."

The old woman nodded benignly. "Please forgive me, dear, if I don't get up. These old hips . . ."

"I'll walk them out," said Lucas. Lucas bent down to pick up Abby, but the baby squirmed away from his grasp and started to fuss, turning toward her mother.

"Somebody's tired," said Keely, reaching for her baby. "Thank you again, Betsy." She waved Abby's hand at Betsy, then followed Lucas, who was limping noticeably, out the front hall to the verandah, which overlooked a rolling lawn. The heavens were starless, thanks to a pervasive haze that turned the white moon into a dimly glowing pool of light in the night sky.

"We can take it from here," said Keely.

"Don't be silly," said Lucas. "I insist."

Keely knew better than to argue with him. They walked in silence down the long path to Keely's SUV in the driveway. Lucas gallantly opened the doors for them. As Keely buckled Abby into her car seat Lucas said, "Keely, look-I will go down to Maureen Chase's office tomorrow and speak to her about all this. I'm sure I can get her to back off."

Keely straightened up. "I already tried, Lucas. I know you told me not to, but I had to. She was not receptive."

Lucas frowned at her, but his tone was understanding. "Maybe I'll have better luck," he said.

"I hope so. I'm really worried that Dylan won't want to go back to school when the suspension is over. You know how kids are. They think everyone is looking at them and talking about them anyway. But now . . . I mean, for the paper and the D.A. to suggest that he did it on purpose . . . it's all too much."

"Don't let her get to you," said Lucas firmly. "This will all blow over."

Right,Keely thought, slamming her car's door.Every storm blows over sooner or later. But it can leave a lot of destruction in its wake.

BYTHE TIMEthey arrived home, Abby was asleep in her car seat. Keely smiled at her as she carefully dislodged her from the seat and carried her into the house. Only a few lights were on in the house, the same ones she had left burning when she had left for the Weavers'. When Keely opened the front door, she wanted to call out to Dylan, but she was afraid to wake the baby. Maybe he was downstairs. She peeked into the kitchen, the dining room, and the living room, but he was not there. The TV was off-so he wasn't downstairs. Keely walked down the hall to the nursery. By the glow of Abby's night-light, she managed to change the sleeping baby's diapers and snap her into her pj's without awakening her. Kissing Abby's forehead, Keely stood for a moment holding Abby beside the crib and inhaled her child's pure, sweet scent. Reluctantly, she put the baby into her crib, covered her, and tiptoed out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar and the baby monitor on.

Now,she thought.Dylan.She walked to the bottom of the stairs and called softly up to him, but there was no answer. Impatiently, she ran up the stairs and went down the hall to his room. She expected to see him there, on the bed, listening to music, playing some invisible guitar, but when she opened the door, she could see immediately that he was not there.

Oh no,she thought. Her heart sank at the realization that he had defied her edict after all.I'll bet he went to Jake's. G.o.ddamit.He was suspended, for G.o.d's sake. This wasn't some kind of holiday.Well,she thought,so much for treating him fairly, giving him the benefit of the doubt.A little part of her felt frightened by his defiance. She felt as if she was losing control.Thank G.o.d he has that shrink appointment tomorrow,Keely thought.I need help with this boy.Hoping against hope, she checked the other bedrooms on the second floor but could see at a glance that he was not there. She went back downstairs, looked in the office and then on the back porch, and finally went for the phone. The Amblers' phone number rang three times, and then Susan answered.

"Susan, this is Keely Weaver," Keely said impatiently. "Is Dylan there?"

"No. I don't think so. Just a sec." She heard Susan speaking to Jake. Then she turned back to the phone. "No," said Susan.

"I'm going to wring his neck," said Keely. "When did he leave? Did he say he was heading home?"

"Keely, I'm not sure what you mean. He wasn't here at all tonight."

Keely's stomach turned over. "He wasn't?"

"No," said Susan. "I'm sorry. Did he say he was coming here?"

"Well, not exactly . . ." Keely mumbled.

"Just a second." Susan turned from the phone and spoke to her son, "Honey, did Dylan call to say he was coming over tonight?"

Keely heard Jake say, "No."

Susan came back on the line. "No. Jake didn't hear from him."

Keely was silent, her mind working furiously.

"Did you look in his room?" Susan asked sympathetically.

"Yes, I looked," Keely said, her voice rising. "He's not here."

"Do you know where else he might have gone?" Susan asked.

"No," Keely cried. "I thought he went to your house."

"Let me ask Jake," Susan said. Once again her words were muted. "Jake, do you have any idea where Dylan might have gone tonight? Was there anything going on around town he might have . . . ?"

"I don't know. Skating, maybe . . ." was Jake's m.u.f.fled reply.

Susan returned to her caller. "Jake says maybe he went skating. I'm sure he'll be home soon. Don't worry. They're all like that."

No,Keely thought, hanging up.They're not all like Dylan.She ran back up the stairs to the bathroom beside Dylan's room. But before she even looked, she knew he wasn't in the shower. She would have heard the water running. Or seen a light under the door. She opened the door anyway, to confirm what she already knew. Then she stood in the hallway looking helplessly around her.His bike,she thought.Check on his bike.Maybe he rode somewhere else. She ran down the stairs again and out the front door to the garage, which was set back from the main house. She pulled open the garage door and flipped on the light.

There was his bike, parked where it always was, beside Mark's car.He hadn't taken his bike. Could someone have picked him up? He didn't know anybody old enough to drive. Someone's father? He had no other friends that she knew of. Could he have gone for a walk? That girl, Nicole, who had been at the funeral, lived down the street. Was it possible he had walked down there to see her? It was difficult for Keely to picture him doing that. That took . . . self-confidence. And she knew Dylan's was in short supply these days. Short supply. That was a joke. He was feeling lower than low. But where else could he be? He wouldn't just go take a walk. He never did. Jake said skating.Maybe his skateboard,she thought, her hopes rising for a moment, but when she walked around the car, there it was, leaning up against the wall beside his bike.

Dylan, where are you?she thought furiously. Maybe he'd left a note when he went out. Where would he leave it? In the kitchen, she thought. That's where this family left notes. She had only glanced into the kitchen. Maybe she hadn't seen it. She raced back into the house, trying not to panic, telling herself there was some rational explanation for all of this that would make him exasperated with her when he found out how upset she'd been. She tried not to think about their argument this afternoon. After all, it was only one of many. Keely hurried down the hall to the kitchen and switched on the bank of lights. Her eyes went immediately to the table, where they always left notes. Even in her other life, with Richard . . . Right there, under the salt shaker. There was nothing. But the thought of Richard gave her another idea. What about Ingrid? Could he have called his grandmother? Maybe asked her to come and pick him up? It was worth a try. She dialed Ingrid's number and leaned against the sink, chewing her lip. She hated to get Ingrid involved in this. And if he wasn't there, Ingrid would be panicky and want Keely to call the police.

Oh, Dylan, where did you go?Keely's stomach was in a knot of frustration and worry. As she stood there, at the sink, chewing her lip, trying to figure out how she would phrase her question to Ingrid, she did not realize, at first, what her eyes were looking at. After all, there was nothing abnormal about seeing coats on the coat hooks beside the back door. But then, just as Ingrid picked up the phone and said, "h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo?" Keely understood.

She hung up the phone and walked stiffly over to the coat hooks. Richard's leather jacket was hanging there.

If there was one thing she knew about Dylan, it was this: He wouldn't leave the house without Richard's coat. A shudder went through her as she touched the worn leather, and she whirled around, expecting to see him. But there was no one there. The house was as silent as ever.

But hewashere. He was home.

"Dylan," she cried out, loudly, not caring if it woke Abby. "Dylan, where are you? Answer me!"

She began to run through the house, turning on lights, throwing open doors. She ran out to the backyard, flipping on the floodlights for the pool. There was no sign of him. "Answer me!" she cried.

And then, just as she was about to cross the patio, back into the house, she noticed something-a dim light at ground level. A dim light coming from the bas.e.m.e.nt.

The bas.e.m.e.nt?she thought. What would he be doing down there? There was nothing down there. They'd only just moved in. They hadn't had time to fill it up with junk. There were some empty boxes. A few old lawn chairs. Some tools of Mark's.

Her heart pounding, she walked over to the closed, sloping metal doors that led to the steps. There was no way into the bas.e.m.e.nt from inside the house-only these heavy doors. Why would he close them if he went down there? Could they have slammed shut accidentally? Was he trapped down there? She hoisted up the door on the right, locked it in an open position, and called out to him again. "Dylan?"

Now that the door was open, she could see that the light was on. But he didn't answer. Slowly she walked down the cement block steps, her heart thudding as she pushed cobwebs out of her way.

"Dylan, answer me," she pleaded, but her voice was a whisper. She reached the bottom of the steps and looked through the gloom toward the light. It took her eyes a moment to adjust. To realize what she saw.

He was sprawled facedown on the cement floor.

"Oh my G.o.d!" she cried. "No!" She started toward him and lost her balance as her foot landed on an empty bottle, which rolled away. Shepitched forward and landed on her hands and knees, sc.r.a.ping her hands on the concrete. She scrambled toward him. She smelled the blood before she saw it, cutting through the musty odor of the bas.e.m.e.nt, filling her nose with a scent so vile she retched as she reached him. She could see his face now, dead white against the dusty gray floor. From the sickle-shaped wound across his throat, blood had spilled out onto the floor beneath him in a jagged pool, like the map of some dark, lost world.

16.

Mrs. . . ." The young, bespectacled African-American doctor glanced down at the chart in his hand and then back at the crowd of people dispersed through the emergency room waiting area. ". . . Weaver?"

Keely rose to her feet. There was a whooshing sound in her ears, and she knew what it meant. She was on the verge of fainting.Not now,she told herself fiercely.You've got this far.

Somehow, she had made it to a phone. Somehow she had dialed 911. And called Ingrid, who had arrived in her Toyota in only minutes, it seemed, a raincoat pulled on over her nightgown and slippers. Somehow Keely had managed not to pa.s.s out in the ambulance as she watched Dylan's still, white face as the EMTs worked over him, blood seeping through the gauze around his neck. Managed to answer the questions of the police officers at the hospital and sign papers as they jounced Dylan off the ambulance on a gurney and into a room where they closed the door and shut her out. Somehow she had made it through the last two hours, all by herself.There's nothing you can't do,she thought,when you have no choice.

"I'm Mrs. Weaver," she said.

The doctor beckoned to her. "Come with me, please."