Hide (Detective D.D. Warren, #2)(111)

Mrs. Petracelli had asked me if I would say a few words. Not the eulogy; their priest did that and he was okay, I guess. She was hoping I might tell people of the Dori I knew, because none of these people had ever gotten a chance to meet that child. It sounded like a good idea. I thought I would. But when the time came, I couldn't speak. The emotions I felt were too strong to share.

Mostly I think I should take that movie deal. Because I would like to donate the money to Mrs. Petracelli's foundation. I would like more Doris to be returned to their parents. I would like more childhood friends to have the opportunity to say "I love you, I'm sorry, good-bye."

The truth shall set you free.

No, the truth just tells you what was. It explains the nightmares I have three or four times a week. It explains the pile of vet bills and medical bills that I still face. It tells me why a UPS man I thought I knew only in passing listed one Amy Grayson as his sole beneficiary. It explains why that same UPS man spent the first fifteen years of his service constantly changing routes, apparently searching the entire state of Massachusetts for a family he was convinced couldn't have moved that far away. Until one day, quite by accident, all his searching was rewarded and he found me.

Truth tells me that my parents really did love me, and it reminds me that love, alone, is not enough.

Really, what a girl needs is a sense of identity.

I'm as clean as I'm ever going to get. Legs and armpits shaved. Pulse points dabbed with oil scented with cinnamon. I should put on a dress. It's just not me. In the end I go with low-riding black slacks and a really cool gold-sequined camisole I picked up for next to nothing at Filene's Basement.

Definitely heels.

Bella starts to whine. She recognizes the signs of my impending departure. Bella doesn't like to be alone in the apartment anymore. For that matter, neither do I. I can still see Charlie Marvin's lifeless body sprawled in my kitchen. I'm sure Bella can still smell the blood soaked into the floor.

Next week, I decide. I will apartment hunt. Thirty-two years later, it's time for the past to be the past.

Doorbell rings.

Shit. My palms are sweating. I'm a wreck.

I cross briskly to my brand-new door, careful not to trip in my heels. I start working the locks—three, a slight improvement from five—while praying I don't have lipstick on my teeth.

I open the door, and I'm not disappointed. He is wearing khakis with a light blue shirt that complements his gray eyes, topped with a navy sports jacket. His hair is still damp from his shower; I can smell his aftershave.

Yesterday, at 2:00 p.m., with the last set of remains identified and no one alive to prosecute, the Boston police officially ended their investigation into the Mattapan crime scene and dissolved the task force.

Yesterday, at 2:01 p.m., we struck our deal.

Now he holds out a bouquet of flowers and, of course, a dog treat. It goes without saying that Bella won't be left behind.

"Hello," he says, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Bobby Dodge, pleased to meet you. Have I mentioned yet that I have a thing for barbecues, white picket fences, and barky white dogs?"

I take the flowers, hand Bella the chew bone. Keeping with the script, I stick out my hand.

He of course kisses the backs of my fingers and sends shivers up my spine.

"Nice to meet you, Bobby Dodge." I take a deep breath. "My name is Annabelle."