D.D. jerked her head toward me. "Later," she murmured. "Get her settled. I'll assemble the task force. We'll discuss."
He scowled, gaze clearly skeptical. "Later," he grudgingly agreed, peeling away from her unmarked Crown Vic, heading toward me. I used the opportunity to try to catch a glimpse of the rest of the note. I simply saw the same two lines: Return the locket or… Another girl dies.
Bobby put his hand on my arm, pulling me away. I let him, but only until we were out of earshot of D.D.
"What does it say?" I demanded.
"Nothing. Probably just a publicity stunt."
"The general public doesn't know about the locket. It never made the news."
Apparently not even the fine detective had connected that dot yet. His footsteps faltered. He caught himself. Soldiered on. We had reached the elevator. He punched the down button with more force than necessary "Bobby…"
"Get into the elevator, Annabelle."
"I deserve to know. This involves me."
"No, Annabelle, it doesn't."
"Bullshit—"
"Annabelle." The elevator doors were closing behind us. "The note doesn't even mention you. The author wants D.D."
HE DROVE ME in silence to the vet's. There, Bella greeted me with ecstatic frenzy She twirled, she jumped, she smothered my face in kisses. I held her longer than I intended, burying my face in the thick mane at her neck, grateful for her warmth, her squirming body, her madcap joy.
Then the traitor turned around and jumped on Bobby with equal enthusiasm. There's no loyalty in the world.
Bella settled down once I got her to Bobby's car. She enjoyed a good car ride as well as the next dog, scooting close to the passenger's door so she could decorate the window with nose prints. She'd already left a trail of fine white hair all over the recently cleaned seat. It made me feel better.
Arriving at my apartment building, Bobby parked illegally and came around to the passenger side. I opened my door on my own, a rather pointed statement. He simply diverted his attention to Bella, who of course bounded out of the car and pranced around his legs, oblivious to the rain.
"Always a pleasure to help a lady," he said, patting the top of her head.
I wanted to hit him. Pummel him. Kick and scream at him as if everything were his fault. The violence of my own thoughts startled me. I walked with shaky footsteps to the building, working my keys with fingers that trembled.
Bella dashed up the stairs to the apartment building. I followed at a slower clip, trying to pull myself together as I went through the motions of unlocking doors, checking mail, securing all portals behind me. I had a rolling feeling in my stomach. A childish urge to stop and cry. Or better yet, pack five suitcases.
My father had masqueraded as an FBI agent, interviewing a young abduction victim two years before I'd ever been stalked. My best friend had been killed in my place. Someone, twenty-five years later, was now demanding the return of my locket.
My head hurt. Or maybe it was my heart.
Once in my apartment, Bobby made the rounds. His fluid movements should have made me feel better. Instead, his need to secure my apartment only upped my anxiety as I realized that, once upon a time, this was exactly what my father would've done.
When Bobby finished, he gave me a curt nod, permission to enter my own home, then took up position against the kitchen counter. He watched as I went through my own homecoming routine, setting down the mail, depositing my suitcase in my room, filling a water bowl for Bella. The digital display on my answering machine read six messages, unusual volume for my quiet little world. Instinctively, I moved away; I would check the messages later, when Bobby was no longer around.
"So," he said.
"So," I countered.
"Plans for the evening?"
"Work."
"Sewing?"
"Starbucks."
He frowned. "Tonight?"
"People like their java twenty-four/seven. Why? Am I under house arrest?"
"Given recent events, a reasonable level of caution is not a bad idea," he replied levelly I couldn't take it. I jutted my chin up and cut to the heart of the matter. "My father didn't do it. Whatever you're thinking, my father wasn't like that. And the note proves it. Dead men aren't known for their personal correspondence."
"Note's not your concern, Annabelle. Note is official police business, which may or may not have anything to do with this case."