Lisa Gardner - Hide

D.D. nodded thoughtfully "I'll call Christie. No guarantees, however. Her limitations are her limitations, and the information you want means by definition she's analyzed all six remains."

"Yeah, got that."

"You'll keep pushing the Russell Granger angle?"

"Yep."

"Anything else we need for tomorrow?"

"Told Annabelle I'd pick her up at ten."

"Ah, a day with Catherine Gagnon," D.D. murmured. "God give me strength."

"You'll leave the brass knuckles at home?" he asked dryly

She merely gave him a pinched smile. "Now, Bobby, a girl's gotta have some fun… "

BELLA AND I ran. Down Hanover, exiting right, weaving through a myriad of side streets until we burst through to the main drag of Atlantic Avenue. We picked up pace, thundering into Christopher Columbus Park, bursting up the short flight of stairs, flying beneath the long, dome-shaped trellis before pounding down the other side, across the street, and into Faneuil Hall. My breath grew ragged. Bella's tongue lolled.

But still we ran. As if I could be fast enough to escape the past. As if I could be strong enough to face my fears. As if through sheer force of will I could block Dori's grave from my mind.

We hit Government Center, then looped back to the North End, dodging reckless taxis, passing the clusters of homeless bedded down for the night, then finally returning to Hanover Street. There, we finally slowed, chests heaving, and limped our way back to the apartment. Once inside, Bella drank an entire bowl of water, collapsed on her bed, and closed her eyes with a contented sigh.

I showered for thirty minutes, put on my pajamas, lay on my bed wide-eyed. It would be a long night.

I DREAMED OF my father for the first time in ages. Not an anxiety dream. Not even an angry dream, where he appeared as some omnipotent giant and I was a tiny little person, yelling at him to leave me alone.

Instead it was a scene from my twenty-first birthday. My father had invited me to dinner at Giacomo's. We arrived promptly at five, because the local favorite seated only a handful and never took reservations; on a Friday or Saturday night, the line for a table would wrap around the block.

But it was a Tuesday, quiet. My father, feeling expansive, had ordered each of us a glass of Chianti. Neither of us drank much, so we sipped our wine slowly while dipping thick slices of homemade bread into peppered olive oil.

Then my father, out of the blue: "You know, this makes it all worth it. Seeing you looking so beautiful, all grown up. It's all a parent wants for his child, sweetheart. To raise her, to keep her safe, to see the adult he always knew she could become. Your mother would be proud."

I didn't say anything. My throat felt too tight. So I sipped more wine. Dipped more bread. We sat in silence and it was enough.

Eighteen months later, my father would step off the curb into the path of a zigzagging taxi, his face so badly shattered by the impact, I identified his remains based upon the vial of ashes he still wore around his neck.

I honored his wishes by cremating his body and mixing his ashes with my mother's in my pendant. Then I took the urn down to the waterfront late one moonless night and turned the rest of his ashes loose in the wind.

All these years later, my father's entire worldly possessions still fit in five neat suitcases. His only personal item: a small box containing fourteen charcoal sketches of my mother.

I packed up my father's apartment in one afternoon. Canceled the utilities, wrote those last few checks. When I shut his apartment door behind me for the last time, I finally understood. I had my freedom. And the price of it was to always be alone.

Bella crawled into bed with me around three. I think I had been crying. She licked my cheeks, then turned around three times before collapsing in a heap at my side. I curled around her, and slept the rest of the night with my cheek against the top of her head and my fingers curled into her fur.

SIX A.M., BELLA wanted breakfast, I needed to pee. My thoughts were still scattered, I had dark circles under my eyes. I should finish my current project, send out the invoice, then get packed for Arizona.

I thought instead of the day ahead. The meeting with Catherine Gagnon, who everyone agreed that I didn't know. Yet the cops were willing to fly all the way to Phoenix to see her with me.

The unknown unknowns. My life seemed to be full of them.

And then, brushing my teeth, the gears finally started churning in my brain.

With four hours before departure to Arizona, I knew what I needed to do next.

MRS. PETRACELLI opened the door and seemed to step right out of my memory. Twenty-five years later, her figure remained trim, her hair a dark bun pinned conservatively at the nape of her neck. She wore dark wool slacks, a cream-colored cashmere sweater. With her carefully made-up face and red-lacquered nails, she was everything I remembered: the polished Italian wife who took impeccable pride in her home, her family, and her appearance.

As I stood on the opposite side of the screen door, however, she plucked at a loose thread dangling from the hem of her sweater, and I could see her fingers were trembling.

"Come in, come in," she said brightly. "Oh my goodness, Annabelle, I couldn't believe it when you called. It's so nice to see you again. What a fine young woman you have become. Why, you are the spitting image of your mother!"

She waved me inside, hands moving, head bobbing as she gestured me into a butter-colored kitchen, where a round table awaited with steaming mugs of coffee and sliced tea bread. I could feel the forced gaiety behind her words, however, the brittle edge to her smile. I wondered if she could gaze on any of Dori's girlhood friends without seeing what she had lost.

I had looked up Walter and Lana Petracelli this morning, using the phone book listings on the Internet. They had moved from the Arlington neighborhood to a little cape in Waltham. It had cost me a small fortune in cab fare to get here, but I thought it would be worth it.

"Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice," I said.

"Nonsense, nonsense. We always have time for old friends. Cream, sugar? Would you like a slice of banana bread? I made it last night."

I took cream, sugar, and a slice of banana bread. I was glad the Petracellis had moved. Just being around Mrs. Petracelli was giving me a terrible case of deja vu. If we had been visiting in their old kitchen in their old house, I wouldn't have been able to take it.

"Your parents?" Mrs. Petracelli asked briskly, taking the seat across from me and picking up her own coffee, which she drank black.

"They died," I said softly, adding hastily, "Several years back," as if that made a difference.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Annabelle," Mrs. Petracelli said, and I believed her.

"Mr. Petracelli?"

"Still in bed, actually. Ah, the price of getting old. But we still get out and about quite a bit. In fact, I have a meeting at nine for the Foundation, so I'm afraid I can't linger too long."

"The Foundation?"

"The Dori Petracelli Foundation. We fund DNA tests for missing persons cases, in particular, very old cases where the police departments may not have the resources or the political will to pay for all the tests now available. You'd be amazed at how many skeletal remains are simply tucked away in morgues or whatnot, having been shelved before the advent of DNA testing. These are the cases where the new technology might have the most impact, yet these are precisely the victims who remain overlooked. It's a catch-22- victims often need an advocate to apply pressure to an investigation, and yet without an identity there's no family to advocate for the victim. The Foundation is working to change that."