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whatever you want.” I squeeze her hand. “Really. You can have the whole room.”
    She shakes her head.
No, thank you,
she’s saying.
    I’ve put away childish things,
that look says.
    “Okay, babe,” I murmur, standing up.
    “How do you want to handle this room, Smoky?” Elaina’s gentle voice startles me.
    I run a hand through Bonnie’s hair as I look around the room.
    “Well,” I start to say—and then my cell phone rings.
    Callie rolls her eyes. “Here we go.”
    “Barrett,” I answer.
    Sorry,
I mouth to them.
    A deep voice rumbles. “Smoky. It’s Alan. Sorry to bother you today, but we got a situation.”
    Alan is overseeing the unit while I’m on vacation. He’s more than competent; the fact that he’s felt the need to call me raises my antennae.
    “What is it?”
    “I’m in Canoga Park, standing in front of a house. Scene of a triple homicide.
Bad
scene. Twist is, there’s a sixteen-year-old girl inside. She’s got a gun to her head and says she’ll only talk to you.”
    “She asked for me by name?”
    “Yep.”
    I’m silent, processing.
    “Really sorry about this, Smoky.”
    “Don’t worry about it. We were just about to take a break, anyway. Give me the address and Callie and I will meet you there soonest.”
    I jot down the address and hang up.
    The man had gotten it wrong: Death
doesn’t
take a holiday, apparently. Par for the course. As always, I am living my life on multiple levels: Make this a home, decide if I am going to leave this home and go to Quantico, go stop a young woman from blowing her brains out. I can walk and chew gum at the same time, hurrah for me.
    I look at Bonnie. “Sweetheart—” I begin, but stop as she nods her head.
It’s okay, go,
she is saying.
    I look at Elaina. “Elaina—”
    “I’ll watch Bonnie.”
    Relief and gratitude, that’s what I feel.
    “Callie—”
    “I’ll drive,” she says.
    I crouch down, facing Bonnie. “Do me a favor, sweetheart?”
    She gives me a quizzical look.
    “See if you can figure out what we should do with all those stuffed animals.”
    She grins. Nods.
    “Cool.” I straighten up, turn to Callie. “Let’s go.”
    Bad things are waiting. I don’t want them to get impatient.

7
    “ ALL TUCKED AWAY,” CALLIE MUSES AS WE PULL ONTO THE SUB- urban street in Canoga Park.
    She’s talking to herself more than to me, but as I look around, I understand the observation. Canoga Park is a part of Los Angeles County. Los Angeles doesn’t provide a lot of distance between the suburbs and the city proper. You can be on a street lined with businesses, drive two blocks, and find yourself in a residential neighborhood. It was a casual transformation; traffic lights gave way to stop signs and things just got more
quiet
. The city hustled nearby, never stopping, always there, while the homes were here, “tucked away.”
    The street we’d turned onto was in one of those neighborhoods, but it has lost that quiet feeling. I spot at least five cop cars, along with a SWAT van and two or three unmarked vehicles. The obligatory helicopter is circling above.
    “Thank God we still have daylight,” Callie remarks, looking up at the helicopter. “I can’t stand those blinding spotlights.”
    People are everywhere. The braver ones are standing on their lawns, while the more timid peek out from behind window curtains. It’s funny, I think. People talk about crime in urban areas, but all the best murders happen in the suburbs.
    Callie parks the car on the side of the street.
    “Ready?” I ask her.
    “Born ready, bring it on, pick your cliché,” she says.
    As we exit the car, I see Callie grimace. She places a hand on the roof of the car to steady herself.
    “Are you all right?” I ask.
    She waves away my concern. “Residual pain from getting shot, nothing I can’t handle.” She reaches into a jacket pocket and pulls out a prescription bottle. “Vicodin, today’s mother’s little helper.” She pops the top and palms a