Page 70 of Deadline

“Who’s that?”

“You know, the director of the museum. You like him. Remember, he does duck calls?”

With cell service restored, she’d been able to contact George. After learning of her emergency, he and his wife had agreed to watch the children for as long as she needed them to.

“They have grandsons near your age,” she added as she wrestled the disliked shirt over Hunter’s head. “They’ll be there to play with you.”

“Why can’t we stay here and play with Dawson?”

“Yeah? How come?” Grant whined.

“Because you’ll be playing with new friends today.” She injected false cheer into her tone. “The Metcalfs have a swimming pool, and there was mention of a cookout and s’mores.”

“I’ll bet they’re dorks,” Hunter mumbled.

Grant’s only concern was whether or not the other boys liked cars. “I don’t know,” she replied in exasperation when he asked her for the third time. “Put your shoes on.”

Then, in response to their crestfallen expressions, she gathered them into a group hug and held them tightly. “I’m sorry I’m so cross. I’m not mad at you, I promise. I just have a lot of grown-up things on my mind today. So, please, do as I ask without an argument, okay?”

Sullenly they promised to obey, but they persistently asked about Stef and Dawson’s absence. She realized that her vague answers would pacify them for only so long, and then she would have to tell them why Stef had left without saying good-bye and explain why she wasn’t coming back.

She would have to talk to them about death. Again. They weren’t strangers to it. First their grandfather’s. Then Jeremy’s. Now their nanny’s. It was a lot for their young minds to wrap themselves around. It was almost too much for hers.

Because her car was integral to the investigation, it had been impounded, so Bernie offered to drive them to the ferry dock. She settled the boys in the backseat with a portable DVD player between them and dual headsets.

Once under way, Bernie said, “What do you think happened?”

“I don’t know, Bernie. I really don’t want to talk about it.”

Her mind was still reeling over everything that had transpired since being awakened by Dawson in the throes of a nightmare. His angry rebuke, followed by that tender appeal for forgiveness, then the kiss. His fervency and her oh-so-eager response. The doorbell.

His reaction to the deputy’s bombshell had been stoicism that bordered on surliness. Before they left, Tucker had allowed him to go upstairs to change clothes, accompanied by the uniformed officer. While Dawson was out of earshot, the deputy asked Amelia about the sequence of events that had taken place the night before.

“What time did Mr. Scott arrive at your house?”

“Eight thirty. Nine possibly.”

Bernie chimed in. “That’s right. They stopped at my place. Woke me up, actually. I automatically checked the time. It was eight fifty-two.”

Tucker took notes. He asked Amelia if Dawson had been in the house all night.

“Yes.”

“Can you swear to that?”

“He and I went upstairs around eleven. We parted at the bedroom door where my sons and I were supposed to sleep. I didn’t see him again until shortly before you arrived.” She hoped that neither man detected the heat that rushed to her face. “If he left the house during the night, I was unaware of it.” Realizing why the time line was important, she asked, “How long had Stef been…”

Inferring the question she was unable to ask, Tucker told them that the time of Stef’s death hadn’t been firmly established.

At that point, Dawson had appeared on the stairs, trailed by the young deputy. As he walked to the front door, Dawson had asked, rather sarcastically, if the deputy wanted to handcuff him.

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Scott. This isn’t an arrest. We just want to talk to you.”

“Right.” He’d then turned to look at Amelia, but she had difficulty holding his gaze. She heard him mutter something she didn’t catch, then he pulled open the front door and went out ahead of the two deputies.

Now as Bernie, his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, dodged flooded areas of the road, she contradicted herself about not wanting to talk about it. “For the past week or so Stef had been seeing someone.”

“Dirk.”