Hide (Detective D.D. Warren, #2)(64)

Then the traitor turned around and jumped on Bobby with equal enthusiasm. There's no loyalty in the world.

Bella settled down once I got her to Bobby's car. She enjoyed a good car ride as well as the next dog, scooting close to the passenger's door so she could decorate the window with nose prints. She'd already left a trail of fine white hair all over the recently cleaned seat. It made me feel better.

Arriving at my apartment building, Bobby parked illegally and came around to the passenger side. I opened my door on my own, a rather pointed statement. He simply diverted his attention to Bella, who of course bounded out of the car and pranced around his legs, oblivious to the rain.

"Always a pleasure to help a lady," he said, patting the top of her head.

I wanted to hit him. Pummel him. Kick and scream at him as if everything were his fault. The violence of my own thoughts startled me. I walked with shaky footsteps to the building, working my keys with fingers that trembled.

Bella dashed up the stairs to the apartment building. I followed at a slower clip, trying to pull myself together as I went through the motions of unlocking doors, checking mail, securing all portals behind me. I had a rolling feeling in my stomach. A childish urge to stop and cry. Or better yet, pack five suitcases.

My father had masqueraded as an FBI agent, interviewing a young abduction victim two years before I'd ever been stalked. My best friend had been killed in my place. Someone, twenty-five years later, was now demanding the return of my locket.

My head hurt. Or maybe it was my heart.

Once in my apartment, Bobby made the rounds. His fluid movements should have made me feel better. Instead, his need to secure my apartment only upped my anxiety as I realized that, once upon a time, this was exactly what my father would've done.

When Bobby finished, he gave me a curt nod, permission to enter my own home, then took up position against the kitchen counter. He watched as I went through my own homecoming routine, setting down the mail, depositing my suitcase in my room, filling a water bowl for Bella. The digital display on my answering machine read six messages, unusual volume for my quiet little world. Instinctively, I moved away; I would check the messages later, when Bobby was no longer around.

"So," he said.

"So," I countered.

"Plans for the evening?"

"Work."

"Sewing?"

"Starbucks."

He frowned. "Tonight?"

"People like their java twenty-four/seven. Why? Am I under house arrest?"

"Given recent events, a reasonable level of caution is not a bad idea," he replied levelly I couldn't take it. I jutted my chin up and cut to the heart of the matter. "My father didn't do it. Whatever you're thinking, my father wasn't like that. And the note proves it. Dead men aren't known for their personal correspondence."

"Note's not your concern, Annabelle. Note is official police business, which may or may not have anything to do with this case."

"So my father posed as an FBI agent and he visited Catherine after her attack. Maybe as a father he wanted to understand firsthand what kind of monster preyed on little girls. Maybe as an academic, he felt it was the best way to do research. I know there's an explanation!" The words sounded defensive, the theories preposterous even as I laid them out. But I couldn't help myself. After a lifetime of warring with my father, of accusing him of being controlling and manipulative, suddenly I was his biggest defender. It was one thing for me to distrust my father. But I would be damned before I'd let anyone else beat him up.

Bobby seemed to be genuinely considering my words. "All right, Annabelle. Give me a reason. Try something on for size. I'm willing to be open-minded. The pitchforks and torches can come out later."

"He wasn't even around when Dori disappeared," I said sharply "We were already in Florida."

"So you believe," he said.

"So I know! My father never left us once we got settled in Florida!" I told the lie effortlessly I thought, bitterly, that my father would be proud.

Two weeks after we'd been in Florida, me, waking up in the middle of the night. Screaming. Wanting my father, begging for my father. My mother coming to my side instead. "Shhh, sweetheart. Shhhh. Your father will be home soon. He just had to go tidy up some loose ends. Shhh, sweetheart, everything is all right."

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

Bobby's even-toned voice returned me relentlessly to the present: "Annabelle, where is your family's furniture? Your whole family disappeared in the middle of the afternoon. What happened to your stuff?"

"A moving van came and got it."

"Pardon?"

"I talked to Mrs. Petracelli—"

"You what?"

"I hid in a corner and shut my eyes," I said sharply, anger returning to full boil. "What did you think I was going to do? Wait for you and D.D. to serve up my life on a silver platter? Please. You're the cops. You don't care about me."

He took a step forward. The look on his face was no longer impassive. His eyes had turned a deep, stormy gray. I thought I should be scared. Instead, I felt excited. I wanted to fight, to war, to rage. I wanted to do anything other than continue to feel helpless.

"What did you tell Mrs. Petracelli?" he demanded.

"What, Bobby," I parodied in falsetto, "don't you trust me? Aren't we all on the same team!"