She was a little shocked when instead of going for a run, I simply walked her to the other end of Quincy Market, where I hoped Mr. Petracelli was still waiting for me.
I didn't see him at first, trying to sort through the small crowd that had gathered outside Ned Devine's. The rain had stopped, meaning the barflies had returned. I had just started to panic, when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I whirled around. Bella barked madly.
Mr. Petracelli backed way off. "Whoa, whoa, whoa," he said, hands up, nervous eyes on my dog.
I forced myself to take a deep breath, to calm Bella now that so many people were staring. "Sorry," I muttered. "Bella doesn't like strangers."
Mr. Petracelli nodded skeptically, his eyes never leaving Bella, as she finally settled down, pressing against my leg.
Mr. Petracelli was dressed for the weather. A long tan trench coat, black umbrella at his side, dark brown fedora capping his head. He reminded me of someone from a spy movie, and I wondered if that's how he viewed our meeting, some kind of clandestine operation, carried out between professionals.
I didn't feel very professional at the moment. Mostly, I was grateful for the presence of my dog.
It was Mr. Petracelli's meeting, so I waited for him to speak first.
He cleared his throat. Once, twice, three times. "Sorry about, um, yesterday," he said. "I just… When Lana said you were coming over… I wasn't ready yet." He paused, then, when I still didn't say anything, expanded in a rush: "Lana has her Foundation, her cause. For me, it's not like that. I don't like to think about those days much. It's easier to pretend we never lived on Oak Street. Arlington, Dori, our neighbors… it's almost like a dream. Something very far away. Maybe, if I'm lucky, it only happened in my mind."
"I'm sorry," I offered lamely, mostly because I didn't know what else to say. We had moved around to the other side now, away from the bar crowd, to the other corner of the broad, granite-columned building. Mr. Petracelli still hung back, keeping a wary eye on Bella. I preferred it that way.
"Lana said you gave Dori the locket," he declared suddenly. "Is it true? Did you give her one of your… presents? Did that pervert who left them for you kill my daughter?" His voice had risen. I saw something move in the shadows of his eyes then. A light that wasn't quite sane.
"Mr. Petracelli—"
"I told the Lawrence detectives there had to be a connection. I mean, first some Peeping Tom looks in our neighbor's window, then our seven-year-old daughter goes missing. Two different cities, they said. Two different MOs. Mind your own business is what they meant. Let us do our jobs, crazy kook."
He was working himself into a state.
"I tried to call your father, thought if he could at least speak to the police, he could convince them. But I didn't have a phone number. How do you like that? Five years of friendship. Cookouts, New Year's Eve parties, watching our daughters grow up side by side, and one day your family takes off without so much as a by-your-leave.
"I hated your father for leaving. But maybe it's just plain old jealousy. Because he left and he saved his little girl. While I did nothing and I lost mine."
His shrill voice broke off, his bitterness undisguised. I still didn't know what to say.
"I miss Dori," I finally ventured.
"Miss her?" he parroted, and that ugly thing flickered in his eyes again. "I haven't heard from your family in twenty-five years. Pretty funny way to miss someone if you ask me."
More silence. I shifted uncomfortably from side to side. I felt that he had something important to say, the real reason he had dragged himself out on such a dark and rainy night, but he didn't know yet how to put it in words.
"I want you to go to the police," he stated finally, peering up from beneath the brim of his hat. "If you tell them your story, especially about the locket, they'll take a fresh interest in the case. There's no statute of limitations on murder, you know. And if they find some new leads…" His voice wobbled. He stiffened, soldiered on.
"I got a heart condition, Annabelle. Quadruple bypass, shunts. Hell, I'm more plastic parts than flesh and blood these days. It's gonna get me in the end. My father didn't live much past fifty-five. My brother neither. I don't mind dying. Some days, frankly, it sounds like a relief. But when I die… I want to be buried next to my daughter. I want to know she's by my side. I want to know she finally came home. She was only seven. My little girl. God, I miss her so much."
And then he started crying, giant, heaving sobs that made strangers stop in bewilderment. I put my arms around his shoulders. He grabbed on to me so hard, he almost pulled me to the ground. But I braced myself against his weight, felt the waves of his rough, violent grief.
Bella whined, prancing nervously, pawing at my leg. All I could do was wait.