"Stop doing what?" Bobby asked.

"Exchanging glances. It's very annoying. Not nearly as cool as you two seem to think."

This earned me a pair of arched brows instead.

"Catherine has met your father?" Bobby asked skeptically.

"He went to her hospital room where she was recovering after being rescued." My chest practically swelled with pride. Or gas. "He visited her twice!"

"Your father questioned Catherine?"

"Yes. I'm telling you, he was an FBI agent. And that's what FBI agents do, they question victims of crime."

D.D. sighed, rubbed her forehead, sighed again. "I'm going to brew coffee," she said abruptly. "Annabelle, you've got a lot of sobering up to do."

"I am not lying! Ask Catherine! She will tell you. He came to her room twice."

"In the hospital," Bobby said.

I nodded, an ill-considered motion that almost made me puke again. "He said he was a special agent, FBI, and asked her all sorts of questions about her attack."

Halfway across the room, D.D. stilled, caught the pause, got herself moving again. "All sorts of questions?" she asked. "What kind of questions?"

"Well, you know, FBI questions. Who grabbed her, what did he look like, what kind of car did he drive. Where did the perp take her."

"The perp?"

"Oh yeah, the perp. Plus all the stuff you asked. Where, what kind of supplies, how long was she underground. What did Umbrio say, were there any other victims, how did she get away, blah, blah, blah."

The coffee was percolating now, the rich, caffeinated scent permeating the air.

"He visited Catherine twice?" Bobby asked.

"That's what she said."

"Did he show ID?"

"I don't know."

"Was anyone else with him? Another member of law enforcement? A partner?"

"She never mentioned anyone with him." I placed my hand on his muscled arm. "But I think partners are just a TV myth," I told him kindly. "The real FBI doesn't do that sort of thing."

"But they have secret undercover agents," he drawled.

"Oh yes."

"Who still live at home with their families?"

Across the room, D.D. was making frantic ixnay motions with her hand. That, more than anything, caught my attention. All at once, I heard how ridiculous my words sounded. All at once, the true implication of Catherine's words hit me, and I felt my stomach plummet, the floor drop out from underneath me. Except I couldn't be sick anymore. I couldn't pass out cold. I had already played my best denial cards under the influence of alcohol. I had no tricks left.

"They do have undercover agents, don't they?" I heard myself ask. "I mean, they could…"

My hand was still on Bobby's arm. He took it now, led me back to the sofa. I sat down hard. Didn't move.

He took a seat across from me, on the edge of the bed. D.D. brought me a mug of coffee.

"Did your father ever tell you he was an FBI agent?" Bobby asked quietly.

I sipped scalding black coffee, shook my head.

"Did you ever hear him tell anyone else he was an FBI agent?"

Another negative, another bitter sip.

"Of course, we'll call the Boston field office and ask," Bobby said gently

"But…"

"It's the FBI, Annabelle, not the CIA. Besides, no FBI agent worth his salt would call nine-one-one over something as stupid as a Peeping Tom. First, he'd deal with it himself. Second, if he did feel there was a threat to himself or his family, he'd call his buddies to cover his back. Your father was interviewed three times by local officers and never once mentioned being an agent. It's just too important a piece of the puzzle for him not to mention it. It… it doesn't make any sense."

"But why would he tell Catherine he was with the FBI?" I stopped talking. Finally saw the logical answer they'd seen from the very beginning. Because my father had wanted information on Catherine's abduction. Personal, firsthand information, which was important enough for him to pose as a federal agent not once, but twice.

In November of 1980, my father was already obsessed with violence toward young girls. Except, in theory at least, no one had started stalking me yet.

Coffee spilled out of my mug, burning my hand. I used it as an excuse to retreat once more to the bathroom, where I ran cold water and stared at my reflection in the mirror. My features were ashen. Sweat beaded my brow.

I wanted to be sick again. I wasn't going to be that lucky

I washed my face with cold water. Again and again.

When I went back out to the main room, I rebuilt my face into a facade none of us were stupid enough to believe.

"I'm going to go to my room now," I said quietly.

"I'll walk you there," said Bobby.

"I'd like to be on my own."

Bobby and D.D. exchanged uneasy glances. Did they think I would bolt? And then it occurred to me: Of course they did. That was my MO, right? The mistress of multiple identities, a girl born to run.

Except that honestly hadn't been me. It had been my father.

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

Every time we moved, my mother and I made so many mistakes. Used the wrong names, referenced the wrong cities, forgot key details. But my father never did. My father was always smooth, fluid, and controlled. How could I never wonder how he learned to lie so well? How he learned to live on the run? How he learned to adapt and reconfigure himself so easily?

My father always said to trust no one. Maybe that also applied to himself.

Bobby and D.D. still hadn't said a word. I couldn't wait anymore. I turned on my heels and headed for the door.

They didn't stop me, not even as the door closed behind me and left me alone in the hall.

For just one moment I thought about it.

Run. It's not so hard. Just put one foot in front of the other and go.

But I didn't run. I walked. Slowly, very carefully, step by step, to my assigned room.

Then I lay down fully clothed on top of the cheap hotel bed. I stared at the whitewashed ceiling. And I counted down the hours to dawn, holding on to the vial of my parents' ashes and praying desperately to find strength for the days ahead.

BOBBY'S ALARM went off at five a.m. He thought that was mean, so he hit Snooze. That bought him two more minutes, then his phone rang. D.D., of course.

"Are you sleeping at all?" he asked.

"What are you, my fucking mother?"

"Now, see, this is why you need rest."

"Bobby, we have three hours before we have to leave for the airport. Get your ass up here."

As words went, he didn't find them inspirational. So he showered, shaved, packed, and poured himself a steaming mug of black coffee. By the time he reached D.D.'s room, she looked about thirty seconds from full boil.

He thought she'd launch into another tirade. At the last moment, however, she seemed to realize the error of her ways, and held open the door instead.

Her hotel room looked like it had been hit by a hurricane.

Papers strewn, coffee spilled, discarded food decorating a room-service tray Whatever she'd been doing since Bobby had seen her last, it hadn't involved any rest.

"I already spoke to the hotel manager," she started off curtly. "He promised to alert us immediately if Annabelle tries to check out."

Bobby looked at her. "Because if Annabelle decides to bolt, naturally she'll have the consideration to formally check out of her room first."

"Oh my God-"

"D.D., sit down. Take a breath. For God's sake, you're one step away from the Looney Tunes conga line." He shook his head in exasperation. She merely scowled.

D.D. was wearing the same clothes from the night before, now covered in wrinkles and smelling of day-old sweat. Her skin was sallow; her blonde hair, frizzed; her blue eyes, bloodshot.