Hide (Detective D.D. Warren, #2)(100)

It's what my father would've done.

But leaving meant packing. Packing meant suitcases. Suitcases were kept in my storage locker; one was assigned to each tenant, in the basement below.

I had retrieved items from my storage space countless times before. I told myself that today was no different.

The stair creaked beneath my foot. Instantly I froze. I was on the third-story landing, right outside apartment 3C's door. I stared at it, my heart pounding, waiting to see what would happen next. Then, in the next minute, I pulled it together, scolding myself.

I knew the tenants who lived in 3C. A young professional couple. Had a gray tabby cat named Ashton who liked to hiss at Bella from beneath the door. Ashton's attitude aside, we'd all managed to coexist for the past three years. There was no logical reason to suddenly be afraid of them now.

It was more like, why not be afraid of apartment 3C? With no tangible focus for my anxiety, it was easy to look at every dark shadow and see the possible outline of evil Uncle Tommy.

I descended to the second floor, then the first. In the lobby came the hard part. My hands were shaking. I had to work to maintain focus.

I sorted through my ring of keys, finally finding the right one and inserting it in the lock. The side door, old and heavy, groaned inward to reveal a black plunge into the bowels of the centuries-old building. I fumbled overhead until I found the chain for the bare-bulb stairwell light.

The smell was different here. Cold and moldy, like mossy stones or damp earth. Like the smell from Dori's grave.

Bella scrambled down the narrow wooden stairs without a second thought. At least one of us was brave.

At the bottom, the crude plywood storage structures were bolted against the far wall. As the fifth-floor tenant, I had the storage unit at the end, secured by my own metal padlock. It took me two tries to get it undone. In the meantime, Bella worked the basement perimeter, making the happy woofing sounds of a dog discovering hidden treasures.

I got out my parents' luggage. Five pieces, pea green, made of some kind of industrial fabric that had been heavily patched with duct tape over the years. The largest piece squeaked alarmingly as I wheeled it along the floor.

And in that instant, I saw so many snapshots of time. My father, that last afternoon in Arlington. My mother, merrily unpacking the suitcase in our first apartment, giddy over the bright Florida sun. Packing up in Tampa. Checking into Baton Rouge. The brief stint in New Orleans.

We had done it. Fighting, building, correcting, warring, grieving. Losing, hating, winning, weeping. We had been messy and tumultuous and bitter and determined. But we had done it. And never, until this moment, had I missed my parents so much. Until my fingers closed around my necklace and I swore that I could feel them standing beside me in this cold, dank space.

And I realized, in that instant, that I would've done the same thing if I'd been them. I would've moved heaven and earth to save my child. Given up my job, my identity, my community, even my life. It would've been worth it to me, too. That's what being a parent was all about.

I love you, I love you, I love you, I tried to tell them. I had to believe that they could hear me. If only because without that bit of faith, I'd be no better than Mr. Petracelli, drowning in a sea of bitterness and regret.

Onward and upward, my father had always said. This will be the best place yet!

"Onward and upward," I whispered. "All right, Daddy, let's get this done."

I organized the luggage, locked up my storage unit, then whistled for Bella. Given the load, I'd have to make two trips. I started with the largest piece, strapping another piece on top, then hooked one of the smaller bags over my shoulder.

I shuffled my way through the narrow corridor between storage units. Looked up.

And saw Charlie Marvin silhouetted at the top of the stairs, his eyes peering down and finding me in the gloom.


[page]
BOBBY WAS HEADING for Sinkus's cubicle when his cell phone chirped. He checked caller ID, then answered. "You got the fax?"

"Hello to you, too," said Catherine.

"Sorry. Lotsa things happening."

"As I can tell from the fax. Well, then, to answer your question, the drawing could be of the same man."

"Could be?"

"Bobby, it's been twenty-seven years."

"You recognized the photo of Annabelle's father easily enough," he countered.

"Annabelle's father interacted with me." Catherine sounded annoyed. "He argued and pushed me until I grew angry with him. That made an impression. The sketch, on the other hand… What I remember most is my first thought—the man in the drawing wasn't the man who attacked me."

Bobby sighed. What he needed now was something more definitive. "But it's possible this sketch is the same sketch you were shown in the hospital?"

"It's possible," she agreed. Moment's pause. "Who is it?"

"Annabelle's uncle, Tommy Grayson. Turns out he started stalking Annabelle when she was about eighteen months old. Her family fled from Philadelphia to Arlington in an attempt to get away from him. He found them."

"Did Tommy know Richard?"

"Not that we know of. Tommy probably got the idea for using an underground chamber, though, by watching your case on the news."

"Happy to help," Catherine murmured dryly.

Because he knew her better than most, Bobby stopped walking. "It's not your fault."