Not Guilty by Patricia MacDonald

Dylan. “How was dinner at Jake’s?” she asked.
    Dylan shrugged and began to bounce the ball away from her. “Okay,” he said.
    “Did you two play that computer game you like so much?”
    “For a while,” he said. He walked over to the free-throw line that Mark had painted on the driveway and took aim. The ball struck the edge of the hoop and bounced back. He ran to retrieve it. He jogged back to the line and took aim again. His face was a blank. All his concentration appeared to be on the ball and the hoop.
    “Dylan,” Keely said. “I want to talk to you about something. About what you said, this afternoon before you left.”
    Dylan tried a shot which hit the backboard and came right back to him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
    Keely shivered and wished she’d put on her jacket before she came out. “You said I blamed you about Mark.”
    Dylan focused on the hoop, and tossed the ball again. Again, he missed. “Damn,” he said.
    “It’s getting dark,” she said. “Hard to see the basket.”
    “That’s just an excuse,” he said.
    Keely nodded. For a minute there was silence while he shot again, and the ball hung above the rim before it sank into the basket. “Anyway,” she said, “I wanted to make this clear: I don’t blame you, honey. I never could. These things happen in life. There’s nothing we can do to change them. It’s a waste of time to even think about it. It’s important to get past this stuff. Not to dwell on it.”
    “That’s what you wanted to tell me?” he said coldly.
    “I just want you to know that there’s no way I hold you responsible, honey. Do you understand that?”
    “I understand,” said Dylan, hurling the ball into the darkness, beside the garage. “I’m sick of this game.” Without another word, he stalked past her, heading into the house.
    “Dylan, what is it? Talk to me. I want things to be right between us. What did I do now? I can’t seem to do anything right.”
    Dylan stopped on the path to the front door. Silhouetted by the light from the house, his profile reminded her so much of Richard. Dylan had inherited his father’s lanky frame and his even features. Also, she thought, he had Richard’s tendency to keep his innermost thoughts hidden, where they could nag at him and plague him. Keely could see that Dylan was trying to form the words to say what was on his mind. Instead, he said, “The phone’s ringing.”
    “Let it ring,” she said.
    “It’ll wake up Abby,” he reminded her.
    Keely sighed and then ran toward the house, knowing what he said was true. When she reached it, it was only the Realtor, making an appointment for the next day. She dispatched the call as quickly as possible, then went back to look for Dylan. She’d heard the door slam while she was on the phone so she knew he was in the house. But when she called for him downstairs there was no answer. She climbed the stairs and went down the hallway to his room. His jacket lay over the back of his desk chair. His clothes were on the floor. The door to his bathroom was closed, and she could hear the shower running. Drowning me out, she thought. With a sigh, she bundled up his dirty clothes and headed down the hall to the stairs.

7

    A re you sure this is all right?” asked Nan Ranstead breathlessly. Keely forced herself to smile. Nan was a Realtor at the agency where Keely had listed the house. Nan had phoned half an hour ago to say that she had clients in her office eager to look at the house. Keely understood that she was expected to leave when clients were viewing the property, but Abby had fallen asleep only moments earlier and Keely didn’t intend to wake her. “Perfectly all right,” she said.
    “We’ll tiptoe around,” Nan promised. She gestured with one French-manicured fingernail to the sleek-looking young couple in the driveway. The pair began to walk toward the doorstep where Nan waited.
    They probably think I’m the cleaning woman,