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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, light-headed.

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?”

“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.

The thought of someone lurking outside my unit, perhaps stalking Bella and me, had Ben troubled. He would keep a lookout, he promised Bobby. Could probably even work a way to pass through the street a few more times a day. Yeah, he could do that.

Ben wasn’t a spring chicken. I pegged his age in the fifties, and he had the oversize bottle-thick glasses and a graying mustache to go with it. His job kept him active, though; he had a fit, rangy build just starting to go soft in the middle. Bobby twenty years from now. Beneath the rim of his brown UPS-issued baseball cap was the face of a former boxer—the crooked nose that had taken one too many punches, a hairline scar running down the left side of his chin from a rebuilt jaw, which twisted his lower face slightly to the left.

Now Ben squared his shoulders, puffed out his chest. Very solemnly, he shook Bobby’s hand.

So I had the entire Boston PD, plus one UPS man, standing guard. I ought to sleep like a baby at night.

Ben departed. Bobby carried my box back into the building. I followed behind and decided that I was just plain depressed.

I
CAUGHT D.D. AND
Bobby arguing fifteen minutes later. I was supposed to be sitting on my couch, being a good girl. I was too wired for sitting, however, and still couldn’t get used to so many bodies crowding my little space. No one seemed to care what I was doing. So I went downstairs to check on Bella.

Bobby and D.D. were outside, by the curb. No other detectives around. I heard D.D.’s tone first and the anger in it brought me up short.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” D.D. snarled.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bobby, pretending to be blasé, but already defensive, so apparently he knew exactly what D.D. had on her mind.

I tucked back inside the foyer, ear pressed against the cracked outer door.

“You’re involved with her,” D.D. accused.

“Who?”

D.D. whacked his arm. I heard the smack.

“Ow! What the hell? Is it beat up on Bobby day?”

“Don’t play cute. We’ve known each other too long.”

Pause. Then, when Bobby still didn’t say anything: “Jesus, Bobby, what is it with you? First Catherine, now Annabelle. What do you have, a Messiah complex? Can only fall for the damsel in distress? You’re a detective. You’re supposed to know better.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong.” Bobby, steelier this time.

“I saw the way you looked at her.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake—”

“So it’s true, isn’t it? Come on, if it isn’t, look me in the eye.”

The silence grew long again. I could tell Bobby wasn’t looking D.D. in the eye.

“Goddammit!” D.D. said.

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” he repeated stiffly.

“What, that makes you noble? Bobby…You know, I was doing my best to overlook the Catherine thing. So you got involved with her. So you lost all common sense. God knows she has that kind of effect on men. But then to have you turn around and do it again…Is this why we broke up, Bobby? Because for you to fall in love, the woman’s got to be some kind of a victim?”

Oooh, that really pissed me off. It seemed to get Bobby’s goat, too.

“You wanna call the shots, hey, I like a challenge as well as the next guy, D.D. Except we never challenged each other, you and I. We’re duplicates, D.D. We live our job, eat our job, breathe our job. And when we dated, we brought our jobs along for the ride. Hell, we’ve known each other ten years, and I just found out six hours ago that you have an uncle. And like Rottweilers. It never came up, because
we never stopped talking shop.
Even when we were in bed, we were cops.”

“Hey, there is more to me than this job!” D.D. shot back, and for a horrible moment, I thought she was going to cry.

“Ah Jesus,” Bobby said tiredly.

“Stop it.” Another
thwack
. I was guessing he’d tried to touch her. “Don’t you
dare
pity me.”

“Look, D.D. You wanna get personal? Then call a spade a spade. You were never with me for the long haul. I was a curiosity, an elite sniper who sounded pretty cool when he talked about his gun. We both know you’ve got much bigger game in your sights.”

“Now, that’s low.”

“Well, we’re not exactly standing around exchanging compliments.”

A long, hard pause.

“She’s trouble, Bobby.”

“I’m a big boy.”

“You haven’t done this kind of major case. You can’t get personally involved.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. Now, do you have something specific you need to tell me, sergeant to detective? Because if not, I’m going back inside.”

There was the sound of rustling clothes, then a sudden stop. I think D.D. grabbed his arm. “I went to my house, Bobby. I can’t find any sign of an intruder. My doors are locked, my windows intact. But Sinkus was right; the underwear is mine. Someone broke in, stole the underwear out of my hamper, and was very, very clever about it.”

“The crime-scene techs—”

“There’ll be no evidence, Bobby. Just like they’ve found nothing here. I think that gives us a pretty clear lay of the land.”

“Ah nuts. As soon as we’re done here, I’ll head over with you, look around.”

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 on-coming 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.

I
N 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?”

M
R. PETRACELLI WAS
relieved to hear he wouldn’t have to make the dreaded drive into the city. Bella also thought heading out was a grand idea. Which just left Bobby and me, sitting up front, careful not to meet each other’s eyes.

Traffic was light. Bobby called into Dispatch, requesting a background check on my old neighbors. It intrigued me not to be the only one who was paranoid, for a change. Generally, I ran the name of everyone I met through Google.

“Where’s D.D.?” I finally asked.

“Had to attend to other business.”

“Eola?” I fished.

He slanted me a look. “And how would you know that name, Annabelle?”

I went with a bald-faced lie. “The Internet.”

He arched a brow, clearly not fooled, but didn’t ignore my question. “D.D. is in the process of running a crime scene in her own home. The subject may have left a gift at your door, but he broke into D.D.’s home and stole her underwear.”

“It’s because she’s a blonde,” I said, which only earned me another droll gaze.

We pulled into the Petracellis’ driveway.

The tiny gray cape seemed to blend into the overcast sky. White shutters. Small green yard. The right home for an elderly couple who would never have grandkids.

“Mr. Petracelli never thought the Lawrence police took his daughter’s case seriously enough,” I volunteered as we got out of the car. Bella whined. I told her to stay. “If you mention you’re looking into a connection between Dori’s disappearance and my stalker, I think Mr. Petracelli will open up.”

“I talk, you listen,” Bobby informed me coldly.

Badass,
I mouthed behind his back, but didn’t say a word as we headed up the flagstone walk.

Bobby rang the doorbell. Mrs. Petracelli opened the door. She sighed when she saw the two of us. Gave me a look I can only describe as deeply apologetic.

“Walter,” she said calmly, “your guests are here.”

Mr. Petracelli came bounding down the stairs with far more energy than I remembered from my previous visit. He had an accordion-style file folder tucked under his right arm and a bright, almost surreal gleam in his eyes.

“Come in, come in,” he said jovially. He shook Bobby’s hand, mine, too, then glanced around as if searching for my attack dog. “I was excited to hear you were coming, Detective. And so soon! I have the information, absolutely, it’s all right here. Oh, but wait, look at us, standing in the foyer. How rude of me. Let’s make ourselves comfortable in the study. Lana dear—some coffee?”

Lana sighed again, headed for the kitchen. Bobby and I trailed after Mr. Petracelli as he went skipping to the study. Once there, he plopped himself on the edge of a leather wingback chair, eagerly opening up his file folder, spreading out sheets of paper. Compared to his ominous, brooding approach last night, he was practically whistling as he pulled out page after page bearing the grim details of his daughter’s abduction.

“So you’re with the Boston PD?” he asked Bobby.

“Detective Robert Dodge, sir, Massachusetts State Police.”

“Excellent! I always said the state should be involved. The locals just don’t have enough resources. Small towns equal small cops equal small minds.” Mr. Petracelli seemed to finally have all his paperwork arranged just so. He glanced up, happened to notice that Bobby and I both still lingered in the doorway.

“Sit, sit, please, make yourselves at home. I’ve been keeping detailed notes for years. We have quite a bit to cover.”

I sat on the edge of a green plaid love seat, Bobby wedged beside me. Mrs. Petracelli appeared, depositing coffee cups, cream, sugar. She departed as quickly as possible. I didn’t blame her.

“Now, about November twelve, 1982…”

Mr. Petracelli had indeed kept scrupulous notes. Over the years, he’d developed an elaborate time line of the last day of Dori’s life. He knew when she got up. What she ate for breakfast. What clothes she selected, what toys she had in the yard. At approximately noon, her grandmother told her it was time for lunch. Dori had wanted a tea party instead, with her collection of stuffed bears on the picnic table. Not seeing the harm, Dori’s grandmother had delivered a plate of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, crusts cut off, plus a sliced apple. Last she had seen, Dori was passing out treats among her plush guests. Dori’s grandmother went inside to tidy up the kitchen, then got caught up talking to a neighbor on the phone. When she returned out front twenty minutes later, the bears were still sitting, each with a bite of sandwich and apple in front of its nose. Dori was nowhere to be found.