Dylan dropped his backpack and shuffled reluctantly to his mother, taking his sister from her arms as if Keely were handing him a sack of potatoes.

"Carefully," Keely chided, as Abby let out a little cry, and then nestled-against Dylan's black Wrestlemania T-shirt.

"I'm careful," he said. He began to walk toward the door.

"Thanks, Dylan," she said. "Oh, wait a minute-here, give her this." She picked up a stuffed bear from the ottoman and handed it to Dylan, who dutifully tucked the bear under his arm. "What would I do without you?"

"Whatever," he mumbled.

"And then get started on your homework," Keely insisted. "You can go out when you're done. Detective, would you like to sit down?"

"Actually," said the detective, "I'm here to talk to both of you."

Keely and Dylan exchanged a surprised glance, but neither one protested. "All right, then, put her down and come right back," Keely instructed her son.

After Dylan left the room, Keely indicated a chair and the detective settled himself on the edge of the seat. He adjusted the crease of his trousers and smoothed down his tie. Keely sat down on the sofa opposite him. His presence in her living room made her feel tense.

Phil Stratton glanced around the room appraisingly. "It's a beautiful house you have here," he said.

"I'm selling it," said Keely bluntly.

He maintained a neutral expression in his hazel eyes. He was young, Keely thought, and good looking, but there were lines in his forehead and gray circles under his eyes, which gave him an air ofmaturity. "I don't blame you. I might do the same if I were in your shoes."

Keely felt a little ashamed of the belligerent tone she had taken. "My husband and I had a lot of plans and dreams when we moved in here," she explained.

"I'm sure," he said politely. "How are you getting along?"

Keely shrugged. "Minute to minute," she said. "It's tough. Luckily, I have my children, so I don't have a lot of time to sit and think."

The detective nodded. "Just as well," he said.

Keely felt a little p.r.i.c.kle of anxiety travel up and down her arms. "Detective, I'm a little . . . surprised that you're here. Is this in regard to my husband's death?"

Dylan returned to the living room. "She's in her crib," he said.

"Thank you, honey," said Keely. Dylan nodded, then stood awkwardly outside the grouping of furniture, his arms dangling at his sides.

"Son, could you come and sit down here? I need to ask you a few things. If it's all right with your mother," he said, gazing at Keely.

"What kind of things?" Keely asked warily.

Detective Stratton removed a small leather notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket and opened it. Then he took out a pen. "I have just a few questions about what was happening on the night of . . . um . . . Mr. Weaver's accident. We got the report that Sergeant Henderson filed on the . . . incident, and there were a few things we just want to clear up."

"Like what?" Keely asked curiously.

"Just paperwork," he said.

Dylan grudgingly sat down on the sofa, as far from Keely as possible. "Mom, let's just get this over with," Dylan said wearily.

"All right. You're right," she said. "Please forgive me, Detective. My nerves are not what they might be."

"I understand," he said. "I'll try to keep this brief." Before Keely could reply, he said, "Now, Mrs. Weaver, you were out shopping when the accident occurred?"

"I was buying my husband an anniversary present," she said.

"Terribly sad," he said flatly. "And before that? You were out with your son?"

"The mother of one of Dylan's schoolmates called me, and . . . we went over there."

Phil Stratton nodded and made a mark in his book. "Mrs. Ambler."

"Right," said Keely warily, faintly surprised that he knew the name.

"Something about a bike your son tried to sell?"

Keely sat up in the corner of the sofa and frowned. "How did you know that?"

"Just routinely followed up on the information you gave Sergeant Henderson," he said soothingly. "Now Dylan," he said, "you came home alone. You rode your bike."

Dylan nodded.

"And when you got back here, what happened?"

"I went out again," Dylan said.

"On your bike."

"No, my skateboard," he muttered.

"Where was your skateboard when you picked it up?"

Keely could see Dylan's face redden, and immediately she thought of the skateboard by the pool, the open gate. She had forced herself not to dwell on it. Kids were forgetful. That was a fact of life. Blaming Dylan for his carelessness was not going to bring Mark back. She didn't see why this detective was forcing him to relive an experience they all wanted to forget.

"It was by the pool," Dylan muttered.

"What difference does it make where his skateboard was?" Keely asked sharply.

"I'm just trying to establish what happened," Detective Stratton said calmly.

"You know what happened. You heard what happened," said Keely.

Detective Stratton ignored her sharp tone and turned back to Dylan. "This has been kind of a tough time for you, hasn't it, Dylan?"

Dylan shrugged.

"Your stepfather was a pretty good guy?" he asked sympathetically.

"He was okay," said Dylan.

"Of course, he couldn't replace your real dad."

"No," Dylan admitted softly.

"I'll bet that was tough for you, what happened to your father-"

"Wait a minute, Detective. Why do you have to bring that up?" Keely demanded. She had a sudden, blinding image in her mind's eye of the blood, Richard sprawled on the rug, and Dylan huddled in the closet. "These are very painful memories for us."

"All right, let me backtrack a little," said Phil Stratton. He studied his leather notebook, tapping on it with his gold pen, and cleared his throat. Then he asked, "Would you say you got along pretty well with your stepfather?"

"Pretty well, I guess."

"That business with the bike didn't get him angry at you?"

"He didn't know about it," said Dylan.

"You didn't talk about it when you came home that night?"

"I didn't even see him," said Dylan.

"So there was no argument between you two? No threats exchanged?"

"What are you talking about? Who said anything about arguments or threats?" Keely protested.

"No, I told you," Dylan insisted. "I didn't see him."

"And even if he did, what difference does it make?" Keely cried.

Dylan jumped to his feet. His features were distorted with anger, and his reedy body was shaking. "I didn't, Mom. I just got finished saying that I didn't."

A fretful little cry sounded from down the hall. "Keep your voice down," said Keely. "Look, I'm sorry, Dylan. I'm not blaming this on you. Detective . . . Stratton, is it? Detective Stratton, can't you just leave us in peace? I told the officer who was here that night, my husband Mark did not know how to swim. It was a terrible mistake for us to have a swimming pool, but they say that hindsight is twenty-twenty."

"I have a couple more questions to ask Dylan," he replied.

Keely felt the blood rush to her cheeks. What was this policeman up to? Was he going to make Dylan admit to leaving the gate open? Since when was it against the law to leave a pool gate unlocked? To be forgetful? No matter what the tragic consequences, Dylan didn't cause the accident. It could have been prevented any number of ways. Abbymight have been in her playpen at the time. Mark might not have been distracted. She wasn't going to let this man saddle Dylan with that guilt. "Look, if you are trying to find someone to blame for this . . . Accidents happen, Detective. It's tragic, but it's true. I can accept that."

"It's not a question of your accepting or not accepting it," he said, and there was a trace of steeliness in his tone. "We just think that Sergeant Henderson may have been somewhat . . . less than thorough in his inquiries in this situation. There are official procedures in a case like this . . ."

Keely did not miss the import of his words. She tried to keep the alarm out of her voice. "A case like this. What are you talking about? It's obvious what happened."

"Well, it appeared to be obvious. But what we didn't know, on the night of Mr. Weaver's death," he said carefully, "is that this is the second time you've lost your husband in a tragic accident."

Keely felt as if he had slapped her across the face. It took her a moment to recover her wits. Then she breathed, "How dare you? My first husband's death, as you must know, since you have obviously heard about it, was a suicide."

The detective raised his eyebrows and looked surprised. "Apparently yourlawyer,"he said with a hint of sarcasm, "argued that it was an accident. Argued successfully with the insurance company, if my information is correct . . ."

Abby's fretting from down the hall turned into a wail. The sound of her baby's distress made it difficult for Keely to think. "Dylan," she said, "go and pick her up, please. Bring her to me."

"But Mom-" he protested.

"Do it now," she insisted.

Shaking his head and muttering, the boy left the room. In a few seconds, the screaming stopped abruptly. Keely took a deep breath and tried to speak evenly. There was no point in being defensive about this. She had nothing to hide, she reminded herself. "Detective Stratton, let me explain this. There is no question that Richard shot himself. But as you know, many insurance policies specify that there will be no payment in the case of suicide. My husband Mark, who was my lawyer at thetime, convinced me to allow him to suggest that Richard's death was accidental-"

"So you're saying it wasn't an accident."

Keely started to speak and then stopped herself, trying to think how her words would strike this policeman. Then, she decided not to weigh her words so carefully. "I know . . . Ibelievethat he committed suicide."

"You defrauded the insurance company, in other words."

His words were deliberately insulting. There was little doubt of that. But Keely struggled not to let the accusation throw her. It could be seen that way, she thought. If she were honest with herself, she had always felt a little bit guilty about collecting that insurance money. Not too guilty-after all, they'd paid their premiums faithfully, and Richard's death happened only a matter of months from the time when the company would be required to pay, no matter how he died. Still, she knew it could be seen that way. She had to explain. And she had to maintain a calm demeanor. "My . . . Mark explained to me that what I believed about Richard's death was not the issue-legally. Without a suicide note stating his intentions, it was possible to make a case that Richard's death was accidental. Apparently, Mark was able to make a convincing case to them that it was . . . might have been an accident," she said. "They agreed to pay. There's nothing fraudulent about it."

"But there's some question about the truth," he said, staring at her with his penetrating gaze.

"Not to me," said Keely, not flinching from his stare.

"Well," he said, "I'm sure you can see my problem. There are certain-discrepancies in these stories you are telling-"

"Stories!" she cried.

The detective nodded. "Until we are sure about what happened . . ."

"I've tried to be cooperative, but really, enough is enough. Please, leave my house," she said.

"I'm afraid we're not finished with this," he said.

"Please go," said Keely. "Leave us alone."

"I'll go for now," he said, "but this investigation is still open, ma'am."

She turned her back on him as he walked to the door. She didn'tlook when she heard the door slam. Dylan came into the living room carrying Abby.

"Is he gone?" Dylan asked.

"Yes," she said.

"What's the matter, Mom? What does he want?" Dylan asked, and his voice sounded like a child's.

She needed a moment to get her wits together. The fear in his eyes made her feel angry and helpless. Wasn't it bad enough that they had to live through this again, without having to be badgered about it as well? However improbable it might seem to lose two husbands in a short span of time, she could testify that it was possible. She walked over to Dylan and lifted the baby from his arms, then set her down on the rug.

Crouched beside the baby, she shook a jingling set of plastic doughnuts on a chain, and Abby shrieked with glee. "It's a misunderstanding," Keely said with a nonchalance she did not feel. "Nothing to worry about."

Dylan stepped up beside her, looming over them in his black shirt and jeans like a dark shadow. "What did you tell him?"

"Honey, don't you worry about it," she said, rising to her feet. She looked him in the eyes and said, "I promise you. It's nothing to worry about."

A sudden rap at the door made her jump, and Dylan saw the look of panic in her eyes that belied her confident words.

"You think that's him, coming back."