Part 4 (1/2)

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-s.h.i.+rt.

”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.”