"The little girl smiled and lifted her hands to take Oren as her partner. He was only inches away. The boy stared at her for a second or two, and then I guess the girl just didn't make the cut. He walked right past her, left her standing there all by herself. I remember Belle looking down at her patent leather shoes-while everyone else was staring at her. A few kids were laughing. Oren kept walking-walked right out the front door. One kid in the crowd shouted out an unkind joke. And that little girl just stood there for the longest time, trying to figure out what had just happened to her… and why.

"When I showed up for the next year's ball, I saw her sitting on the staircase out in the foyer. I think she was still waiting for Oren, but he never came back."

By trade, Ferris Monty was a cheerleader for every sort of catastrophe, but tonight, he surprised himself. He found that he could relate to the public humiliation of an eleven-year-old girl. "Why did he do that to her?"

The postmaster smiled and shrugged. "It's a mystery."

Evelyn Straub looked up at a towering ice bird that stood guard over the seafood platters. She filled her plate with shrimp and scallops, while reminiscing with the small woman at her side. "I guess Oren was sixteen when I asked him what happened that night. He told me he got to within a foot of the little Winston girl, and that's when-"

"He remembered that he didn't know how to dance," said Hannah.

The judge had not come down from dancing people. The housekeeper had never learned how, and neither had the boys and girls of Coventry in those days. Children had no formal lessons until they reached the age of prom night, when the school took them in hand for ballroom classes. Hannah had not foreseen the lack of dancing lessons as a life-altering threat to a twelve-year-old boy.

Addison Winston avoided looking at his client. He stared at his glass, as if the details of William Swahn's old case eluded him. "No, I don't believe I ever saw the dispatcher's sworn statement. What of it?"

"Oren Hobbs said the woman disappeared before the police could question her. So that's true?"

"It hardly matters. I'm sure there would've been logbooks or tapes to back up what happened to you that night."

"You don't know? You never asked for the tapes?"

"William, when you were in the hospital, you didn't want to hear any details. And I don't recall you ever asking how I got you all that money."

"I'm asking now."

Addison loosened his tie. "Your settlement hung on the evidence that the police didn't produce, things they didn't want in a public court record. That's why they put your deal on the table so fast. It was all about silence and the domino effect. The LAPD had so many lawsuits pending for corruption and brutality, and they stood to lose all of them because of you. You were the poster boy for police-conspiracy theorists. I hate to admit this, but a chimpanzee could've won that damage award."

"Then Hobbs was right. My case was never investigated."

"I'm sure it was." The lawyer swirled the dregs of the wine in his glass. "But that would've ended after the nondisclosure agreements were signed.

When I do a deal, contract law trumps criminal law. They couldn't go forward with an investigation, not without breaking the agreement. They would've had to pay you triple damages." "Did you think the cops were guilty?"

"It didn't matter to me," said Addison. "But you thought so. Maybe you don't remember-what with all those drugs the doctors gave you to dull the pain. The only time you were halfway lucid was in the recovery room after the surgery. You wanted revenge, and not just against the officers who left you to die that night. You wanted to nail every cop in town. Tall order, but I totally screwed the LAPD. I gave you what you asked for."

"I want to reopen the case."

"Can't be done, William. Breach of contract. You'd have to give back all that lovely cash." Addison moved his hands up and down in the manner of scales. "Justice," he said, his right hand rising. "And money." The other hand sank like a stone. "Not a tough call."

"No it isn't," said Swahn. "I want to reopen the case."

The lawyer laughed. His client did not.

Addison felt a pain in his chest and slipped a pill into his mouth. Within seconds, the medication had done its work, and he was immortal again.

Evelyn took Oren's arm, and he led her to the judge's table. When he pulled out a chair, she settled into it with a grace that chiseled away the pounds and passing years. She nodded to the company around her and then surveyed the crowd.

"This room is ready to dance." She slapped the table. "But that music is boring. I'll have to do something about that."

She rose from her chair and crossed the dance floor for a word with the orchestra leader. Before she left the bandstand, the tempo had changed to a Latin rhythm, and she seemed lighter on her feet as she headed back to the table. Twenty years ago, her hips would have swayed. Tonight she simply stepped in time to the beat of a drum and horns, turning gracefully full circle, and then continuing on her way. Many couples on the floor seemed stalled in place, not knowing where to put their feet this time. Addison Winston waved his arms, trying to catch the orchestra leader's eyes, but the man with the baton only smiled for Evelyn Straub, a woman who knew how to spread her money around.

"That's better." Evelyn sat down and leaned toward Oren. "The next dance will be a tango. Are you up for that?"

Henry Hobbs rested one hand on his son's shoulder. "We're not tango people."

"Speak for yourself," said Evelyn. "I taught him that dance when he was sixteen." Turning back to Oren, she said, "If you could do it naked, I guess you can manage well enough with your clothes on."

The judge spilled his wine and used a napkin to dab at the puddle. "Evelyn, you must find the statute of limitations very liberating."

Rising from the table, Oren held out one hand to her. "Would you like to dance?"

"No," said Evelyn, though she was clearly pleased by the request. "I think it's high time you settled accounts with the Winston girl. And here's the best part. You won't even have to say hello."

Oren crossed the floor, his eyes on Isabelle Winston, and he was not worried that she might turn him down. He had no plans to ask for this dance. That was not in keeping with the spirit of the tango, a dance of love and war. He grabbed her roughly by the wrist and joined her to his hip, then pushed her away.

And she came back.

They owned the floor.

The music was louder, more passionate. Faster, then slower, the notes almost shy and then-vavoom. The music wrapped around them and stroked them up and down. They moved apart. He grabbed her arm and yanked her back again.

So close.

He smelled the wine on her breath, and then, with a turn of the head, the flower scent of her hair, and now her sweat and his. Lips close, almost a kiss, but no. She backed away, a tease with no remorse. He would make her pay for that.

They set out to destroy each other in every move they made. She lifted her face to his, he looked away She returned the insult. He flung her across the floor, and Isabelle came crawling back to climb his body. Oren pressed down on her shoulders, and she sank to her knees. Rising to a swaying stand, she moved in close. Her leg rode upon his hip for an embrace.

And so they danced with perfect understanding, anger and contempt, sex and longing. Her nails dug into his neck. He left impressions of his fingers on her bare shoulders.

Apart, together-heat, incredible heat. And always the rhythm kept time with two hearts pounding. Bone against bone, grind and sway, down and down, lower still, he laid her on the floor and then pulled her up by one hand, not caring if he tore her arm off.