Xo

as her brain doing “one of its little dances. ”)
    No, no, this isn’t right. Edwin would be aware of the logistical difficulties of targeting a victim at the luncheon. But the event would providea good distraction and draw off the police. And was Sam Gerber really a likely target? No. Edwin wouldn’t go after somebody he’d commented on in a posting. It was too obvious. Besides, why kill Gerber, one of fifty thousand harmless fans? He didn’t fit the profile of a stalker’s victim.
    The crew was safe. Alicia was among people.
    So who else might the target be?
    Dance asked herself again the basic question: If Edwin was the stalker, what was his goal? Killing someone who threatened to keep them apart, whom Edwin was jealous of, who was perceived as Kayleigh’s enemy or whose death would bind them together forever.
    Dance had recalled the gossip pages in the underground websites O’Neil had found, involving sensational stories reported by fans. A hot topic—since there weren’t many of them—was the tension between Kayleigh and her stepmother. There was even an embarrassing mobile phone video about a recent argument in Bakersfield.
    This wasn’t a full-blown feud; Kayleigh seemed incapable of either the pettiness or the mean spirit that would involve. And from what Dance read, Sheri Towne seemed like a decent woman, solid, loyal to her new husband and even helpful in Kayleigh’s career. But Sheri was the most recent in a long line of stepmothers and she and Kayleigh never seemed to get along. The young woman hadn’t even invited Sheri to the luncheon she herself had helped with.
    Thought Z …
    Dance now called Bishop Towne and identified herself.
    “Sure, Officer Dance,” the man grumbled. “What’s going on with that asshole? Heard he’s played another song.”
    “Where’s your wife?”
    “Gone off to that luncheon thing. Kayleigh invited her, after all.”
    An alarm pinged within Dance, though she’d half expected that answer.
    “When did she leave?”
    “’Bout twenty minutes ago.”
    “Did Kayleigh call her?”
    “No, she emailed. Wanted her to bring some CDs to the lunch. Giveaways. Also said it’d be better if her sister and Mary-Gordon didn’t come ’cause that asshole Sharp.”
    “So she’s alone?”
    “Right.”
    “Bishop, I think Sheri might be in danger. Edwin might’ve sent that email.”
    “No!”
    “Maybe. Which way would she go?”
    “Oh, no, no …”
    “Which way?”
    “From the house, have to be Los Banos Road to Forty-one. You’ve got to do something! Please! Don’t let anything happen to her.”
    It was unnerving to hear the gruff man sounding so desperate, so vulnerable.
    “Give me her number.”
    Dance memorized it. Then told him, “I’ll call you when I know something. What’s she driving?”
    “I think she’s in … yeah, it’s the Mercedes. Silver.”
    Dance first tried Sheri but the woman didn’t answer. She then called Kayleigh and learned, after a brief, awkward pause, that, no, Kayleigh hadn’t really wanted Sheri at the luncheon and hadn’t emailed her. Dance hit DISCONNECT with her thumb and the brake with her foot, skidding to a stop on the shoulder. She punched Los Banos Road into her GPS, and raced back onto the highway.
    Los Banos was a narrow, winding line leading into the foothills toward Yosemite. It would be the only place where Edwin could attack Sheri. If she’d gotten to Forty-one, a wide, multilane road, then she would probably be okay.
    But Dance knew Edwin wouldn’t let her get that far. He would have planned out the perfect site for the attack.
    She tried Sheri’s number again. No answer.
    In two minutes she was speeding through the forests on Los Banos.
    It was then she saw the smoke, maybe a half mile ahead.
    She gripped the phone and started to dial Madigan, jamming the accelerator down even harder as she took a curve. Nissan makes a great SUV but it doesn’t corner like a sports car and she nearly went off the shoulder and into a ravine forty feet below.
    You’re a bad driver to start with, she told herself. Don’t be stupid.
    She brought the skid under control and slowed a bit. She called Madigan and left a message, telling him where she was and to get cars thereimmediately, fire trucks too. Soon she was speeding along a straightaway toward the smoke, which had gone from gray to black.
    Burning tires? she wondered. Oil? A car wreck?
    Dance skidded around this turn too and saw the horrific scene before