"Subsequent events would appear to rule that out, let alone the corresponding pile of physical evidence."
"Bummer."
Bobby shook his head, equally frustrated. "It's hard without the father to interview," he said abruptly. "Annabelle just can't—or won't—tell us enough."
"Rather convenient that both parents are dead," D.D. muttered darkly. She slanted him a look. " 'Course, we could ask Umbrio, but conveniently enough, he's dead, too."
Bobby knew better than to take that bait. "I'm sure Annabelle Granger doesn't find it so convenient that her parents are deceased. Sounded to me as if she wouldn't mind questioning her father some more herself."
"You got the list of cities and aliases?" D.D. asked abruptly. "Look 'em up. See what you can find. It's a good detective exercise."
"Gee, thanks, Teach."
D.D. rose out of her chair, their little conference apparently over. At the doorway, however, she paused.
"Have you heard from her yet?"
No need to define who. "No."
"Think she'll call?"
'As long as we keep calling the scene a grave, probably not. But the minute the media finally figures out it was an underground chamber…"
D.D. nodded. "You'll let me know"
"Maybe, maybe not."
"Robert Dodge—"
"You want an official phone call with Catherine Gagnon, you pick up the phone. I'm not your lackey"
His tone was level, but his gaze was hard. D.D. took the rebuke about as gracefully as he'd expected. She stiffened in the doorway, features frosting over.
"I never had a problem with the shooting, Bobby," she said curtly "Myself, a lot of officers out there, we respected that you did your job, and we understood that sometimes this job really sucks. It's not the shooting, Bobby It's your attitude since then."
Her knuckles rapped the doorjamb. "Police work is about trust. You're either in or out. Think about that, Bobby"
She gave him one last pointed look, then she was gone.
Chapter 7
I FELL IN love with a coffee mug when I was nine years old. It was sold in the little convenience store next to my elementary school where I sometimes used my milk money to buy candy after class. The mug was pink, hand-painted with flowers, butterflies, and a little orange-striped kitten. It came in a variety of names. I wanted Annabelle.
The mug cost $3.99, roughly two weeks' worth of chocolate/milk money. I never questioned the sacrifice.
I had to wait another agonizing week, until a Thursday when my mother announced she had errands to run and might be late picking me up. I spent the day jittery, barely able to focus, a warrior about to launch her first mission.
Two thirty-five the school bell rang. Kids who didn't ride the bus congregated at the front of the brick building, like clusters of flowers. I'd been at this school six months. I didn't belong to any of the groups, so no one cared when I slipped away. Those were the days before you had to sign kids in and out. Before parent volunteers stood guard after hours. Before Amber Alerts. In those days, only my father seemed obsessed with all the things that could happen to a little girl.
In the store, I picked out the mug carefully. Carried it all the way to the register using two hands. I counted out $3.99 in quarters, fingers fumbling the coins with my urgency
The clerk, an older woman, asked me if my name was Annabelle.
For a moment, I couldn't speak. I almost ran out of the store. I could not be Annabelle. It was very important I not be Annabelle. My father had told me this over and over again.
"For a friend," I finally managed to whisper.
The woman smiled at me kindly and wrapped my prize in layers of protective tissue.
Outside the store, I tucked the mug in my backpack next to my schoolbooks, then returned to school grounds. A minute later, my mother arrived in our new used station wagon, back loaded with groceries, fingers tapping absently on the steering wheel.
I felt an agonizing wave of guilt. I was sure her gaze saw right through the blue vinyl of my backpack. She was staring at my mug. She knew exactly what I had done.
Instead, my mother asked about my day I said, "Fine," and climbed into the front bench seat beside her. She never looked in my bag. Never asked about the mug. She simply drove us home.
I kept the pink mug hidden behind a pile of outgrown clothing on the top shelf of my closet. I would bring it down at night, when my parents thought I was sleeping. I would take it into bed, hiding under the covers and admiring the pink, pearlescent sheen under the glow of a flashlight. I would run my fingertips over the raised brushstrokes of flowers, butterflies, kitten. But mostly I traced the name, over and over again.
Annabelle. My name is Annabelle.