"Hey, what the hell do you think we're doing here? Annabelle, one week ago you started using your real name for the first time in twenty-five years. Now you got a gift on your doorstep. Do I really need to connect the dots?"
"No, you don't, you big jackass. I'm the one who hid in a bathtub. I know how scared I am."
I hit him. Not hard. Not even personally. But because I was tired and scared and frustrated and didn't have a real target to strike. He accepted the thump without protest. Just stared at me with those steady gray eyes.
Belatedly, I realized the other officers were watching us. And D.D.'s gaze was ping-ponging between Bobby and me, connecting some dots of her own. I jerked away, desperately needing space.
I was sorry I'd welcomed Bobby. I wanted the cops gone. I wanted the crime-scene techs gone. I wanted to be alone, so I could pull out five suitcases and start packing.
The front buzzer blasted. I jumped, bit my tongue. D.D. and Bobby were already gone, hitting the stairs at a run. At the last minute, my fear shamed me. Dammit, I wasn't going to live like this!
I headed for the door. One of the detectives—Sinkus, I think— tried to grab my arm. I swatted him away. He was softer and slower than Bobby; never stood a chance. I cleared the top landing and careened wildly down the stairs. My neighbors were already scurrying into the relative safety of their apartments, doors slamming, locks clicking.
On the last flight of stairs, I grabbed the wood railing, executing a neat, flying leap over the side. I hit the floor hard, went barreling out the door, only to draw up short.
There stood Ben, my aging UPS man, standing at rigid attention while his eyes nearly bugged out of his head. Bobby and D.D. were already on him.
"Tanya?" Ben squeaked.
And that quickly, I started to laugh. It was the semi-hysterical laughter of a woman who's been reduced to terrifying her delivery man for dropping off her latest order of fabric.
"It's okay," I said, trying to sound calm, hearing the wobble in my voice.
"If you could please hand me that box," Bobby ordered.
Ben handed over the box. "She needs to sign for it," he whispered. "Can I… Should I… Holy Lord."
Ben shut up. One more minute of Bobby's glare, and the poor man was going to pee his pants.
"Smith and Noble," Bobby verified curtly, reading the return address.
"Curtains," I said. "Custom-made fabric shades, to be exact. It's okay, honestly I get a package a day, right, Ben?"
This time I stepped forward, positioning myself between Bobby and my delivery man.
"It's okay," I repeated. "There was an incident. In the building. The police are checking things out."
"Bella?" Ben asked. In the four years I've known him, I've figured out that Ben doesn't really care for people. He's sort of an anti-delivery man—not so much into his customers, as into his customers' dogs.
"She's okay"
As if on cue, Bella finally heard my voice and, from the back of Bobby's car, started to bark. Far from reassuring Ben, he followed the noise to an unmarked police car and grew wide-eyed all over again.
"But she's a good dog!" he exploded.
And now I almost did laugh, except again, it just wasn't going to be a happy sort of sound.
"We needed her out of the apartment," I tried to explain. "Bella's fine. You can go over to her. She'd love to see you."
Ben didn't seem to know what to do. Bobby was still holding the box of fabric, scowling. D.D. appeared just plain disgusted with life.
Executive-decision time. I grabbed Ben's wrist by the cuff of his brown uniform and led him to Bobby's car. Bella had her head half through the cracked-open window, barking joyfully. That seemed to do the trick.
Ben dug in his pockets for cookies and we all resumed life as we knew it.
Bella milked him for four dog bones. By the time we returned to the front of my building, the moment had lost its Miami Vice intensity and we all tried again.
Bobby had some questions for Ben. What was his route? How often was he in the neighborhood? What times of day? Ever notice anyone lurking around the building?
Ben, it turned out, was a twenty-year UPS veteran. Knew the streets of Boston like the back of his hand. In particular, liked to cut down my street about half a dozen times a day to avoid the congestion on Atlantic. Hadn't noticed anyone, but then, he really hadn't looked. Why would he?
A UPS man's life wasn't easy, I learned. Lots of boxes, complex delivery schedules, intricate routes mapped for maximum efficiency, only to be blown to hell by last-minute arrivals of priority packages. Stress, stress, stress, and then there was Christmas. But apparently, the gig offered a great retirement package.