He motioned the crime-scene technician over. The man brought the box into the kitchen and set it on the counter. The four of us clustered around, elbow to elbow, and watched the scientist go to work. He used what looked like a surgical scalpel, carefully easing the tape up from each seam, then unwrapping the paper from the box with the detached precision of an artist.
It took four minutes, then the Sunday comics were off, unfolded to reveal the full Peanuts strip—who doesn't love Snoopy and Charlie Brown?—plus the remnants of a few other strips on the front page. Inside the wrappings was a simple glossy white gift box. The top wasn't taped on. The technician eased it off.
White tissue paper. The technician unfolded the right side. Then the left, revealing the treasure.
I saw colors first. Stripes of pink, both dark and light. Then the technician lifted the fabric from the box, letting it unfold like a pink shower, and my breath caught in my throat.
A blanket. Dark pink flannel, with light pink satin trim. I staggered back.
Bobby saw my expression and caught my arm.
"What is it?"
I tried to open my mouth. Tried to speak. But the shock was too much. It wasn't mine—it couldn't be—but it looked like mine. And I was horrified and I was terrified, but I also dearly wanted to reach out and touch the baby blanket, see if it would feel as I remembered it once feeling, the soft flannel and cool satin sliding between my fingers, soothing against my cheek.
"It's a blanket," D.D. announced. "Like for a baby. Price tag, receipt? Any markings on the box?"
She was talking to the scientist. He had finished spreading out the blanket, turning it this way and that with his gloved fingers. Now he returned to the box, removing the tissue paper, inspecting it inside and out. He raised his head and shook it.
I finally found my voice. "He knows."
"Knows?" Bobby pressed.
"The blanket. When I lived in Arlington, I had a blankie. Dark pink flannel, light pink satin trim. Just like that."
"This is your baby blanket?" D.D. asked in shock.
"No, not my actual blanket. Mine was a little bigger, much more worn around the edges. But it's close, probably as close as he could find, to replicate the original blanket."
I still wanted to touch it. Somehow, that seemed sacrilegious, like accepting a gift from the devil. I fisted my hands at my sides, digging my nails into my palms. All at once, I felt queasy, lightheaded.
How could this one person know me so well, when I still didn't know anything about him at all? Oh God, how could you fight an evil that seemed so incredibly omnipotent?
"In the original police report," Bobby was saying now, "they found a cache of Polaroids in the attic of the neighbor's house. How much do you want to bet some of those snapshots are of Annabelle carrying her favorite blankie?"
"Son of a bitch," I whispered.
"With a very good memory," D.D. added grimly
The scientist had gotten out a paper bag. Up top, with a big black Sharpie, he wrote a number and a brief description. A moment later, the imposter blanket became a piece of evidence. Next went the box and tissue paper. Then the Sunday comics.
My kitchen counter returned to bare space. The crime-scene technician exited with his latest treasures. You could almost pretend it had never happened. Almost.
I walked into the living room. I peered out the window, where I counted a dozen sedans, police cruisers, detectives' vehicles, etc., parked along the curb. From this height, I could see the roof of Bobby's Crown Vic. The back windows were cracked open. I could just make out the moist black tip of Bella's nose, poking out.
I wish I had her with me right now. I could use someone to hold.
"And you swear you didn't see anyone outside the building." D.D. crossed back over to me. "Maybe earlier in the evening?"
I shook my head.
"What about at work? Someone standing in line at Starbucks or who showed up later when you left Faneuil Hall?"
"I'm careful," I said. While I'd handed out business cards to both Mr. Petracelli and Charlie Marvin, that only gave them a P.O. box, not my street address. The cards also had my work phone number, which a reverse directory would simply trace back to the P.O. box. Something I should've considered days ago, when I gave out my home number to Bobby, and thus apparently invited over half the Boston PD.
"How many people now know you as Annabelle?" Bobby took up position next to D.D.
Logical question. I was still tart. "You, Sergeant Warren, the detectives unit—"
"Very funny"
"Mr. and Mrs. Petracelli. Catherine Gagnon. Oh, and Charlie Marvin."
"What?"
D.D. didn't sound happy. Come to think of it, she never did.
I related my conversation with Charlie Marvin from the night before. The Cliff's Notes version. At the end of my spiel, Bobby sighed. "Why on earth did you tell Charlie your real name?"
"It's been twenty-five years," I mocked. "What do I have to fear?"
"You know more about basic self-defense than anyone in this room, Annabelle. What was the point of getting the education if you're only going to play stupid?"
That pissed me off. "Hey, don't you have a child killer to catch?"