What did my father know? For all his scheming, he hadn't been able to dodge a lost taxi.
I squeezed my eyes shut, thought of my mother instead. The way she had stroked my hair. The look on her face that fall afternoon in Arlington, when she had told me that she loved me, that she would always love me.
From my pocket, I took out the picture Mrs. Petracelli had given me. Taken at a barbecue in the Petracellis' backyard. I was sitting on the picnic table next to Dori. We were grinning at the camera, each holding a Popsicle. My mom stood to the side, toasting the camera with a margarita, smiling at us indulgently. My father was toward the back, working the grill. He had also noticed the camera, maybe heard Mrs. Petracelli say "Cheese," and had turned with a large, beaming smile.
The smell of searing hamburgers, freshly cut grass, and roasting corn on the cob. The sound of neighbors' sprinklers and other small children playing next door.
I could feel the nostalgia welling in my throat, the tears burning my eyes. And I understood why I never made it forward. Because mostly I wanted to go back. To the last days of summer. To those final weeks when the world still felt safe.
I wiped my eyes. Flushed the toilet. Pulled myself together, because what else was there to do?
I made it to the sink, setting the photograph carefully to the side so it wouldn't get wet while I washed my hands. Catherine wandered over, regarded my reflection in the mirror. She had retouched her lipstick, brushed out her long black hair.
Side by side, we did look like sisters. Except she was the glamorous one, destined for a life amid the stars, while I was clearly going to become the crazy cat lady who lived alone down the street.
Her gaze drifted down, spotted the photo. "Your family?"
I nodded, then felt, more than saw, her stiffen.
"I thought you said your father was a mathematician," she said sharply
"He was."
"Don't lie to me, Annabelle. I met him. Twice, in fact. Really, you could've just said he was with the FBI."
Chapter 21
WE VIOLATED CURFEW. Catherine didn't get me back to the hotel Bobby and D.D. had booked until 12:23 a.m. I took a staggering step out of the limo, waved good-bye to my newfound best friend, and worked my way resolutely to the lobby. I figured either Bobby or D.D. would be keeping watch. It was Bobby.
He took one look at my disheveled appearance and stated the obvious. "You're drunk."
"It was just one glass of champagne," I protested. "We were toasting."
"To what?"
"Oh, you had to be there." We'd been toasting lies, and the men who told them, and that hadn't taken us one glass of champagne, but three. I was totally shit-faced, going-to-hate-myself-in-the-morning drunk. Catherine had simply mellowed enough to show me photos of her son and smile happily. She had a beautiful son. I wanted a son one day. And a daughter, a precious little girl who I would keep very very safe.
And I wanted sex. Apparently, champagne made me horny.
"Do you like to barbecue?" I asked Bobby. Then found myself humming, "If you like pina coladas, or getting caught in the rain…"
Bobby's eyes widened. "We should never have left you alone with her!"
I did a little dance around the lobby It was tricky, trying to get my feet to move in conjunction with my brain. I thought I did pretty well, though. In the ring, I'd always been admired for my footwork. Maybe I'd take up ballroom dancing. It was all the rage these days. Maybe that would do me good. Practice something beautiful and flowing and flirtatious. You know, instead of hanging out in gyms where sweaty men pummeled one another to death.
Yep, in the morning, I was turning over a new leaf. I was reclaiming my name. Annabelle Granger was going to shake hands with the first stranger she met. Hell, I'd post my Social Security number online and include all my personal banking information. What was the worst that could happen?
Bobby had a nice set of shoulders on him. Not overpumped; I never like that on a guy Bobby's shoulders were compact, well-defined. He wore a loose-fitting polo shirt, and it was fun to watch the way his pectorals rippled beneath the cotton expanse. I liked the way he moved, coiled, lithe. Like a panther.
"You," he said, "need water and aspirin."
"Gonna take care of me, Detective?" I sidled over. He sidled away.
"Ah Jesus Christ," he muttered.
I smiled up at him. "Does the hotel have a pool? Let's go skinny-dipping!"
I thought he actually squeaked.
"I'm calling D.D.," he declared, and made a beeline for the lobby phone.
"Ah, don't spoil my fun now," I called after him. "Besides, you'll want to hear my news."
That stalled him. "What news?"
"Secrets," I murmured. "Deep, dark family secrets." But I didn't get a chance to tell them. Just then, all those thousands of tiny little champagne bubbles finally penetrated my brain, and I passed out cold.