Not Guilty by Patricia MacDonald Page B

mother to behave rationally.
    Keely sighed and gazed down at the sleeping baby. “Because it feels good to hold her,” she said honestly. “I just didn’t feel like moving.”
    “I can relate,” he said, slumping down into a nearby chair, dumping his backpack onto the pavers.
    “How was school?” she asked quietly.
    “Sucked,” he said.
    “Dylan,” she reproved him, “watch your mouth.”
    “Sorry,” he mumbled.
    “Do you have a lot of homework?”
    “A ton of it. Mostly easy stuff, though,” he said.
    “That’s good,” she said. They sat in silence for a few moments. Then she said, “I had the pool covered today.”
    “I see,” he replied defensively.
    Change the subject, she thought. “Actually, I got a few chores done today. I called a Realtor about coming to look at the house. So we can put it up for sale.”
    “Good. I hate this place,” he said bitterly.
    Keely sighed.
    “I know you tried to make it nice,” he said hurriedly.
    “That’s all right, honey,” she said. “I kind of hate it myself.”
    Abby exhaled a noisy sigh and shifted in her mother’s arms.
    Dylan cackled, pointing to the baby. “She snores.”
    Keely smiled in spite of herself. “She does not. She’s just so comfortable.”
    The sound of the doorbell from inside the house startled them both. “Dylan, can you—”
    “Yeah, yeah,” he said, hoisting his backpack from where he had dropped it. Keely frowned at the sight of his closely shaved scalp and his earring, but she resisted making a comment. It was just a fashion, she told herself. It didn’t mean anything. Still, she knew it sometimes gave people a bad impression. Both her brothers had commented negatively on Dylan’s appearance when they were here.
    “I might go skating for a while,” he said.
    “You’d better start your homework,” she called after him softly.
    The warmth of the sun seemed to have faded, and it had begun to seem a little chilly on the patio. “Maybe I’d better get you inside,” she said to the sleeping baby.
    Gathering the baby and the bottle carefully up in her arms, Keely rose from the chair and walked through the French doors into the living room. It took her a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom inside the house. She could see Dylan was talking to someone at the other end of the room. It was a nice-looking, dark-haired man in a sports coat and tie. He looked respectable, but he was a stranger, all the same.
    “Dylan?” she said sharply.
    “Mrs. Weaver,” said the man, coming toward her. “I’m sorry to bother you. My name is Phil Stratton. I’m a detective with the county prosecutor’s office.”
    “How do you do?” said Keely. She turned to Dylan. “Can you put her down in the nursery, honey?”
    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