"Of course, we'll call the Boston field office and ask," Bobby said gently "But…"
"It's the FBI, Annabelle, not the CIA. Besides, no FBI agent worth his salt would call nine-one-one over something as stupid as a Peeping Tom. First, he'd deal with it himself. Second, if he did feel there was a threat to himself or his family, he'd call his buddies to cover his back. Your father was interviewed three times by local officers and never once mentioned being an agent. It's just too important a piece of the puzzle for him not to mention it. It… it doesn't make any sense."
"But why would he tell Catherine he was with the FBI?" I stopped talking. Finally saw the logical answer they'd seen from the very beginning. Because my father had wanted information on Catherine's abduction. Personal, firsthand information, which was important enough for him to pose as a federal agent not once, but twice.
In November of 1980, my father was already obsessed with violence toward young girls. Except, in theory at least, no one had started stalking me yet.
Coffee spilled out of my mug, burning my hand. I used it as an excuse to retreat once more to the bathroom, where I ran cold water and stared at my reflection in the mirror. My features were ashen. Sweat beaded my brow.
I wanted to be sick again. I wasn't going to be that lucky I washed my face with cold water. Again and again.
When I went back out to the main room, I rebuilt my face into a facade none of us were stupid enough to believe.
"I'm going to go to my room now," I said quietly.
"I'll walk you there," said Bobby.
"I'd like to be on my own."
Bobby and D.D. exchanged uneasy glances. Did they think I would bolt? And then it occurred to me: Of course they did. That was my MO, right? The mistress of multiple identities, a girl born to run.
Except that honestly hadn't been me. It had been my father.
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Every time we moved, my mother and I made so many mistakes. Used the wrong names, referenced the wrong cities, forgot key details. But my father never did. My father was always smooth, fluid, and controlled. How could I never wonder how he learned to lie so well? How he learned to live on the run? How he learned to adapt and reconfigure himself so easily?
My father always said to trust no one. Maybe that also applied to himself.
Bobby and D.D. still hadn't said a word. I couldn't wait anymore. I turned on my heels and headed for the door.
They didn't stop me, not even as the door closed behind me and left me alone in the hall.
For just one moment I thought about it.
Run. It's not so hard. Just put one foot in front of the other andgo.
But I didn't run. I walked. Slowly, very carefully, step by step, to my assigned room.
Then I lay down fully clothed on top of the cheap hotel bed. I stared at the whitewashed ceiling. And I counted down the hours to dawn, holding on to the vial of my parents' ashes and praying desperately to find strength for the days ahead.
Chapter 22
BOBBY'S ALARM went off at five a.m. He thought that was mean, so he hit Snooze. That bought him two more minutes, then his phone rang. D.D., of course.
"Are you sleeping at all?" he asked.
"What are you, my fucking mother?"
"Now, see, this is why you need rest."
"Bobby, we have three hours before we have to leave for the airport. Get your ass up here."
As words went, he didn't find them inspirational. So he showered, shaved, packed, and poured himself a steaming mug of black coffee. By the time he reached D.D.'s room, she looked about thirty seconds from full boil.
He thought she'd launch into another tirade. At the last moment, however, she seemed to realize the error of her ways, and held open the door instead.
Her hotel room looked like it had been hit by a hurricane.
Papers strewn, coffee spilled, discarded food decorating a room-service tray Whatever she'd been doing since Bobby had seen her last, it hadn't involved any rest.
"I already spoke to the hotel manager," she started off curtly. "He promised to alert us immediately if Annabelle tries to check out."
Bobby looked at her. "Because if Annabelle decides to bolt, naturally she'll have the consideration to formally check out of her room first."
"Oh my God—"
"D.D., sit down. Take a breath. For God's sake, you're one step away from the Looney Tunes conga line." He shook his head in exasperation. She merely scowled.
D.D. was wearing the same clothes from the night before, now covered in wrinkles and smelling of day-old sweat. Her skin was sallow; her blonde hair, frizzed; her blue eyes, bloodshot.
"D.D.," he tried again, "you can't go on like this. One glance, and the deputy will yank your command and send you packing. It's not enough to manage staff burnout. You gotta manage your own."
"Do not take that tone of voice with me—"
"Look in the mirror, D.D."
"I will not be patronized for doing my job—"
"Look in the mirror, D.D."
"I will have you know, I'm one of those people who don't need much sleep."
He took her shoulders and firmly turned her toward the wall mirror.