She must have appeared dubious, because he declared with some exasperation, "Former tac team, D.D. I know a thing or two about breaking and entering."
"Please, you guys ram the door with a giant metal 'key.' Your style and our subject's style… very far removed."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Bobby muttered, but he sounded troubled. "That's what's bugging me—the stalking MO fits but… Twenty-five years ago, when the subject first operated, his target was young females. Seven-year-old Annabelle Granger, her best friend, Dori Petracelli. Now, suddenly, he's into grown women? You, Annabelle… I'm not a profiler, but I didn't think that sort of thing happened."
"Maybe our ages aren't relevant to him. Annabelle is the one who got away. Having found her again, he's determined that she doesn't escape. And as for me… I'm lead investigator. He wants to yank my chain. But I'm also less personal to him, which is why he didn't mind sending dogs instead of doing the deed himself. She's his life's work. I'm a hobby."
"Encouraging thought."
"Especially for me. Who wants to be killed as an afterthought? Also, Bobby look at Eola. Most people believe he killed a nurse at Boston State Mental. So if Eola is our man, you're talking about someone with a history of targeting females regardless of age. Wasn't Bundy like that? We think of him as attacking college coeds, but some of his victims were quite young. These guys… who the hell knows what really makes 'em tick?"
Bobby didn't say anything right away Then he said, "You still consider Russell Granger a suspect?"
"I will until you prove otherwise."
"Came back from the dead?" Bobby murmured wryly
D.D. surprised us both. "Spoke with the ME last night, Bobby. Given the current demands on your time, I figured I'd do you a favor and follow up on the circumstances surrounding Annabelle's father's death. According to the file, police contacted Annabelle— Tanya—she made the ID, and that was good enough for the ME. Think about it, Bobby. The face was a mess. The ME's office never ran prints or documented any identifying marks—it was just a hit-and-run, and the guy's daughter identified the body. Meaning that corpse could've been anyone carrying Michael W. Nelson's driver's license. A stranger, a vagrant. Some poor slob he pushed into oncoming traffic…"
D.D.'s words seemed to have struck Bobby dumb. Which was good, because I didn't think I could hear above the torrent of blood rushing in my ears. D.D. thought my father was still alive? Theorized he might have killed someone else to fake his own death? Honestly believed he was the evil mastermind behind this homicidal crime spree?
But that was absurd. My father wasn't a killer! Not of little girls, not of Dori Petracelli, not of grown men. He never would've done such a thing.
He wouldn't have left me.
My legs gave out. My shoulder hit the front door, pushing it open. D.D. and Bobby didn't notice. They were too busy analyzing their case, ripping apart my father, turning one of the few truths I knew into a giant lie.
We hadn't left Arlington because my father needed to cover his tracks. We had moved to protect me. We had moved because…
"Roger, please don't go. Roger, I'm begging you, please don't do this…"
"Whoever it is," Bobby was saying now, still sounding clearly skeptical, "the UNSUB wants attention. And for all his 'cleverness' he's making no attempt at being subtle. He left a note on your car, a gift at Annabelle's front door. Why? If he's that brilliant, why not kill both of you and be done with it? He wants the chase. He wants the opportunity to show off. Which is exactly how we're going to catch him. He's going to reach out again, and when he does, we'll nail his ass."
"Hope you're right," D.D. murmured. "Because I'm pretty sure, a guy like this has something scary planned next."
They turned, headed toward the front steps. Belatedly, I stumbled to my feet, bolting up the stairs. Detectives Sinkus and McGahagin looked at me curiously as I swept into my apartment. I went straight into the bedroom. Closed the door.
Seconds passed. Eventually, I heard a tentative knock.
I didn't say anything. Whoever knocked went away
I sat on my narrow bed, clutching the vial of ashes around my neck and wondering if even it contained a lie.
IN THE END, it was my fault. My phone started ringing. I didn't feel like leaving my room to answer it. So naturally, the answering machine picked up. And naturally Mr. Petracelli left his message with half of the Boston PD listening in.
"Annabelle, I found the sketch from the Neighborhood Watch meeting, as you requested. Of course, I'd prefer not to mail these materials. I suppose I can make it back into the city if you really want me to. Same time, same place? Give me a buzz." He rattled off a number. I sat on my bed and sighed.
The knock that came on my bedroom door this time was not a request.
I opened the door to find Bobby standing there, a very dark look on his face. "Sketch? Same time? Same place?"
"Hey," I said brightly "Want to go for a ride?"