Eventually he straightened, wiping at his face, tightening the belt of his coat, adjusting the brim of his hat. He wouldn't look at me anymore. I didn't expect him to.
"I'll go to the police," I promised him, an easy pledge, since I'd already done so. "You never know. Forensic science is getting better all the time; maybe they've already made an important discovery."
"Well, there is that pit over in Mattapan," he mumbled. "Six bodies. Who knows, maybe we'll get lucky." His face spasmed. "Lucky! Do you hear me? Christ, this is no way to live."
I didn't comment. I sneaked a quick glance at my watch. I'd been gone twenty minutes. I was probably as good as fired anyway. What were a few minutes more?
"Mr. Petracelli, did you ever see the Peeping Tom?"
He shook his head.
"But you believed the man existed, right? That someone was living in Mrs. Watts's attic, keeping tabs on me?"
He regarded me strangely "Well, I don't think Mrs. Watts and your father would make up something like that. Besides, the police found the man's camping supplies in Mrs. Watts's home. That seems real enough to me."
"So you never got a look at the guy? Saw him for yourself?"
He shook his head. "Nah, but two days after the discovery of the stuff in Mrs. Watts's attic, we had a neighborhood meeting. Your father circulated a description of the Peeping Tom, along with a list of 'presents' you had received and when they had arrived. He told us there wasn't much the police could do; until something criminal actually happened, their hands were tied. Of course, we were all infuriated, especially those of us with kids. We voted to establish a Neighborhood Watch program. We'd just had our first meeting, in fact, when your dad announced that your family was taking a little vacation. None of us realized we'd never see you again."
"Do you happen to have those handouts? The description of the Peeping Tom my father circulated? I mean, I know it's been a long time, but…"
Mr. Petracelli smiled softly, "Annabelle, honey, I have a whole fat manila folder containing every single piece of documentation. I've brought it with me to every meeting we've had with the police since my little girl vanished, and at every meeting they've politely set it aside. But I've kept everything. In my heart of hearts, I've always known there was a connection between Dori's disappearance and yours. I just never could get anyone else to believe it."
"May I have a copy?" I was already reaching into my bag, fumbling for one of my business cards.
"I'll do my best."
"Mr. Petracelli, you said you knew my father for five years. Were you the one who was new to the neighborhood, or were we?"
"Your family arrived in '77. Lana and I'd been there since she was pregnant with Dori. We'd heard a rumor that a family was moving in with a daughter Dori's age. Lana had just gotten the cookies out of the oven when the U-Haul showed up. She marched right over with snickerdoodles in hand and Dori in tow. You girls became inseparable from that very afternoon. We had your parents over for dinner the second night, and that sealed the deal."
I smiled at him to encourage further reminiscences. "Oh, really? I honestly don't remember. Guess I was too young."
"You were, what, eighteen months, two years old? Had that great toddler waddle. You and Dori used to chase each other around our house, screaming at the top of your lungs. Lana would shake her head, saying it was a wonder you didn't trip over your own feet." Mr. Petracelli was smiling. No wonder he was so tormented. In spite of his earlier statement, he remembered the past vividly, as if it were an old photograph he viewed often.
"Where did my family move from? Do you know?"
"Philly. Your dad had been with the University of Pennsylvania, or something like that. I never understood Russell's job much. Though for a professor type, I have to say, he had great taste in beer. Plus, he liked the Celtics, which was good enough for me."
"I never understood my father's job much either," I murmured. "Teaching math always sounded so boring to me. I remember I used to pretend he was with the FBI."
Mr. Petracelli laughed. "Russell? Not likely. I've never met a man so squeamish about firearms. At that Neighborhood Watch meeting, a bunch of us discussed buying guns for protection. Your dad wouldn't hear of it. 'It's bad enough some man has brought fear to my house,' he insisted. 'I'll be damned if I'll let him bring violence, too.' Nah, your dad was a liberal academic to the core. Can't we talk this out, give peace a chance, and all that crap."
"Did you buy a gun?"
"I did. Little did I know, I should have sent it with Dori to Lawrence." Mr. Petracelli's face twisted again, the bitterness getting the best of him. His breathing had grown shallower, strained. I wondered about his heart.
"Lana said your parents died," he said abruptly
"Yes, sir."
"When?"
I considered his question, where he was going with this. "Does it matter?"
"Maybe."
"Why?"
His lips thinned. "Where did you go, Annabelle?" he said brusquely, ignoring my question. "When your family went on vacation, how far away did you go?"