"And that didn't strike you as odd?"
Another shrug. "Why? I wasn't lacking for officers taking an interest in my case. Every goddamn man in uniform wanted to hear all the sordid details. Is it interesting for you guys? Do you get a secret thrill? Stay alone in the office, whacking off while reading your notes from the rape interviews?"
Bobby didn't respond. Catherine had a reason for her rage. Nothing he could do about it all these years later. Not much she could do about it either.
After a moment, Catherine's gaze relented. She went back to sipping her coffee.
"Was he an imposter?" she asked abruptly.
"Annabelle's father?"
"Is that why you're here now? Because he lied?"
"That's what I'd like to figure out."
"He took her away. That should mean something. When his daughter was threatened, he kept her safe. Sounds like more than a mathematician to me."
"Could be."
Bobby didn't fool her for a minute. "If he wasn't actually with the FBI, why come to my hospital room, why ask me so many damn questions?" she exploded. "Why keep showing me the drawing?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know, or you won't tell me?" She sounded bitter, then sighed, and seemed simply depressed.
"You have a beautiful house," he said at last. "Arizona seems to suit you."
"Ah, money"
"I'm happy to hear things are going well with Nathan."
"He is the love of my life," she said fiercely, and Bobby believed her. He knew better than anyone just how far she'd been willing to go to protect her child. It was the reason their relationship would always be only business.
"Thank you for the coffee," he said.
"Leaving so soon?" Her smile was wistful, but he could tell she wasn't surprised.
"Taxi's waiting."
He thought she'd fight him a little, at least protest. Instead, she rose from the table without a murmur, walking with him to the front door. He was tempted to feel insulted, but it wouldn't be fair to either of them.
At the last minute, in the foyer, broad walnut doors looming, she touched his arm, shocking him with the feel of her fingertips grazing his bare skin. "Are you going to help her?"
"Annabelle?" he asked in confusion. "That's my job."
"She's beautiful," Catherine whispered.
He didn't say anything.
"I mean that, Bobby, she's really beautiful. When she smiles, it reaches her eyes. When she talks about fabric, of all things, she gets giddy I wonder…"
Catherine stopped talking. They both knew what she meant. She wondered what her life might have been like if a blue Chevy had not turned down the street, if a young man had not asked her to help find a lost dog, if a twelve-year-old girl had not gotten lost in an endlessly dark pit.
Bobby took her hand, pressed her fingers with his own.
"You're beautiful to me," he told her softly.
He kissed her once, on the cheek. Then he was gone.
Chapter 23
ANNABELLE WAS AT the airport. She sat four chairs down from D.D., eyes staring out the window at the activity on the tarmac, arms around her knees. She glanced up briefly when Bobby appeared, then returned to her intent study of anyone who wasn't a detective investigating her case. He took that as a hint, and let her be.
D.D. acknowledged him with a wave. Her blonde curls were damp, her clothes fresh. He took that as a good sign while she talked animatedly on her cell phone, unleashing such a long torrent of profanity that a mother traveling with a small child got up and pointedly moved away.
Bobby hit Starbucks. His stomach couldn't stand the thought of more coffee. He purchased three bottles of water, plus yogurt, then returned to the fold. D.D., still on the phone, wrinkled her nose at the yogurt—she'd probably been hoping for a bear claw—but gestured for him to leave the snack on her seat. He then crossed to Annabelle, who, if anything, curled up tighter in her chair.
He held out the treats. She accepted them grudgingly, so he took the seat next to her, digging out two white plastic spoons from the bag.
"How are you feeling?"
She made a face.
"Need more aspirin?"
"Need a new head."
"Yeah, I've been there."
"Oh, shut up," she told him, but she leaned a little closer, going to work on the foil lid of the yogurt. The pendant she always wore dangled down. He eyed the vial until she finally looked up, flushing as she noticed the direction of his gaze. Her fingers folded around the glass self-consciously, tucking it back inside her shirt.
"Whose?" he asked quietly, having finally figured out that the contents resembled ash.
"My mother's and father's," she mumbled, clearly not wanting to talk about it.
So of course he pursued the subject. "What did you do with the rest of their remains?"
"Scattered them. No point in burying them under fake names. Seems too disrespectful to the other dead people."
"What was your mother's name when she died, Annabelle?"
She regarded him uncertainly. "Why?"