She was dressed casually this morning. Low-rise black sweatpants, a gray long-sleeve top that skimmed to a stop just above her waist. Her dark hair was held back loosely in a ponytail, no makeup adorned her face. Again he was struck by her resemblance to Catherine, and yet he couldn't think of two women who seemed more different.
Catherine was a carefully wrapped package, a woman who consciously honed her sex appeal and wielded it like a weapon. Annabelle, on the other hand, was an advertisement for urban chic. When she slapped the half-full glass of water into his hand, he didn't so much think of sex as he thought she might try to kick his ass. She crossed her arms in front of her chest and he finally got it.
"Boxing," he said.
"What about it?"
"You're a boxer." He tilted his head to the side. "Tony's gym?"
She snorted. "Like I want to work out with a bunch of testosterone-pumped muscle heads. Lee's. He specializes in kick-boxing anyway"
"Any good?"
She glanced at her watch. "Tell you what. If you don't have your questions asked in the next fifteen minutes, you can find out."
"You this testy with all cops, or I'm just special?"
She regarded him stony-eyed. He sighed and decided to get on with it. Russell Granger's deep love for law enforcement had apparently been passed on to his daughter. Bobby set down the water, flipped open his notepad.
"So, I learned some things about what happened in the fall of '82." He glanced up expectantly, thinking to find a glimmer of interest in her eyes, a small softening of her stance. Nothing. "Turns out some guy—an unidentified subject, UNSUB, we call him in official police speak—took an interest in you. Started delivering little gifts to the house. Was caught trespassing after dark. Went so far as to try to break into your bedroom.
"The police were called by your father several times. Third time out, they discovered the subject had been hiding in the neighbor's attic across the street, where apparently he had been watching you. They found stacks of Polaroids, notes containing your daily schedule, that sort of thing. Any of this sound familiar?"
"No." She still sounded belligerent, but her arms were down, her expression less certain. "What'd the police do?"
"Nothing. Back in '82, stalking a seven-year-old girl wasn't a crime. Creepy, yes. Criminal, no."
"That's ridiculous!"
"Apparently, your father thought so as well, because within weeks of the final episode, your family disappeared. And weeks after that," his voice grew quieter, "Dori Petracelli was snatched from her grandparents' yard in Lawrence, never to be seen again. You're sure you didn't know?"
"I looked it up online," she said curtly. "Last night. I figured you wouldn't help me. Detectives answer their own questions, not other people's. So I looked it up for myself."
He waited. It didn't take long.
"Have you seen her missing photo, you know, the portrait they posted all over town?"
He shook his head.
"Come here." She crossed the space abruptly brushing by him, into the family room. He saw a small notebook computer buried under a pile of papers. She swept the papers to the floor, flipped open the lid, and the computer screen came to life. It took only a few clicks of the mouse on the Internet and Dori Petracelli's missing photo filled the screen. He still didn't get it. Annabelle had to point it out to him.
"Look around her neck. It's the locket. She's wearing my necklace."
Bobby squinted, bent closer. The photo was fuzzy, black and white, but upon closer inspection… He sighed. If he'd had any doubts before, this took care of them.
"According to the blurb on the website," Annabelle spoke up quietly, "that photo was taken a week before Dori disappeared. Most recent photo, you know." Her voice changed, grew an edge. "I bet he liked that. I bet it turned him on. Watching all the news stories, flashing her picture, showing that locket, begging for her safe return. UNSUBs like to follow their own cases, right? Like to know how clever they have been. Bastard."
She turned away from him, taking several jerky steps across the room.
Bobby straightened more slowly, keeping his gaze on her face. "What do you remember, Annabelle—"
"Don't call me that! You can't use real names. I go by Tanya. Call me Tanya."
"Why? It's been twenty-five years. What do you still have to fear?"
"How the hell am I supposed to know? I've grown comfortable with the fact that my dad was dancing to the tune of a paranoid drummer. You're the one now saying his fears were genuine. What am I supposed to do with that? Some guy stalked me and I never even knew. Then I left and he… he snatched my best friend and he…"
She broke off, unable to continue. Her hand pressed hard over her mouth, her other arm curling protectively around her waist. From the dog bed, Bella looked up, wagged her tail, and whined.
"Sorry, girl," Annabelle whispered. "Sorry."
Bobby gave her a minute. She pulled it together. Chin coming up, shoulders squaring off. He didn't understand the father yet; he had a lot of questions about the father, actually But by all appearances, Russell Granger had raised his daughter right. Twenty-five years later, this girl was tough.