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  “You were his boss?” Bobby clarified for the record.

  “I hired him, based upon the glowing recommendation of my good friend Dr. Gregory Badington, at the University of Pennsylvania. It was the only way it could’ve been done, given the circumstances.”

  “Wait a minute.” Bobby knew that name. “Gregory Badington from Philadelphia?”

  “Yes, sir. Greg headed up Penn’s math program from ’72 to ’89, I believe. Passed away a few years back. Aneurysm. I pray I should be so lucky.” Schuepp nodded vigorously, without a trace of sarcasm.

  “So Gregory Badington was Russell Granger’s former boss,” Bobby said slowly. “He recommended Russell for your program and at the same time he allowed Russell to move his family into Gregory’s home in Arlington. Now, why would Dr. Badington do that?”

  “Greg did his graduate work at Harvard,” Schuepp filled in. “Never lost his love for Boston. When it became clear Russell’s family needed to leave Philadelphia, Gregory was only too happy to lend a helping hand.” The old professor turned to Annabelle. He pressed her palm between his own age-spotted digits. “How much did your father tell you, dear?”

  “Nothing. He never wanted me to worry; then it was too late.”

  “Until they discovered the grave in Mattapan,” Schuepp finished for her. “I saw it on the news, even debated calling the police myself once I read your name. I was fairly certain it couldn’t be your remains that were recovered. I was guessing it was that other young girl, the one from your street.”

  “Dori Petracelli.”

  “Yes, that’s right. She went missing a few weeks after you left. Nearly killed your father. For all his planning, Russell never saw that coming. What a terrible burden to bear. After that, I can imagine why he never told you a thing. What kind of father wants his daughter to discover he saved her life by sacrificing her best friend? Such terrible, terrible choices, for such terrible, terrible days.”

  “Mr. Schuepp—” Annabelle started.

  “Mr. Schuepp,” Bobby interrupted, fumbling with his pen now, frantic to get it all written down.

  The wizened old man smiled. “Guess I’m not going to make my conference,” he said. He picked up the scotch, splashed it in his glass, and gulped it down.

  And started his story from the beginning.

  YOUR FATHER—ROGER Grayson was how he was known back then—lost his parents when he was twelve. It’s not something he liked to talk about. I never heard the details from him, only from Greg, who picked up the tale from scuttlebutt around the department. It was a domestic violence case, I’m afraid. Russell, well, Roger, I guess—”

  “Russell, call him Russell,” Annabelle spoke up. “That’s how I think of him.” Her lips twisted, she seemed to be trying out the words. “Roger Grayson. Roger, please don’t go….” She frowned, grimaced, and stated more emphatically, “Russell.”

  “Russell it is. So Russell’s mother tried to leave Russell’s father. The father didn’t take the news so well, returning to the house one night with a gun. He shot and killed them both. Russell was in the house that night. His younger brother, too.”

  “Brother?” Annabelle exclaimed, bewildered.

  Bobby’s pen paused over his notebook. “Two male Graysons?” He pictured the sketch again, the resemblance to the description they had of Annabelle’s father, and suddenly everything started to make sense.

  Schuepp nodded. “Brother. You have an uncle, my dear, though I’m sure you’ve never heard of him.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “It’s what your father wanted. For good reason. After the shooting, Russell and his brother—Tommy—were fortunate to be admitted into the Milton Hershey School for disadvantaged children. Even back then, both boys showed great academic promise, and the Hershey boarding-school program was an excellent fit. Academic rigor in a lovely, pastoral setting.

  “Your father did exceptionally well. Tommy, seven years your father’s junior, did not. From the beginning, there were signs of mental health issues. Rage/impulse control problems. ADHD. Reactive attachment disorder. I have an interest in the field; been working to develop a statistical model to assist evaluators examining young children. But that’s neither here nor there.”

  Schuepp waved away his own conversational tangent with his hand, then continued more briskly. “Your father graduated early and was accepted at Penn. He was an incredibly gifted student, and Gregory took a shine to him. Under his guidance, Russell submatriculated into the master’s program and began to think seriously about pursuing his Ph.D. in mathematics. Along the way, he fell in love with a beautiful nursing student and halfway through his doctorate program, Russell married your mother.

  “It was about this time that Tommy quit the Hershey school. With no other family, Tommy sought out your father. And not knowing what else to do, your father took him in. Not an ideal situation for a newly married man juggling a young wife and demanding studies, but these are the things families do.

  “Tommy took a job as a dishwasher in a local restaurant. He worked as a bouncer at night and engaged in general mayhem during the day. Russell bailed him out of jail three times, for minor infractions involving brawling, drugs, alcohol. It was always the other guy’s fault, according to Tommy. The other guy started it.

  “Finally, your mother sat Russell down one night and told him that she was scared. Twice she’d caught Tommy peeking into the bedroom when she was changing. And once when she was in the shower, she was pretty sure he’d entered the bathroom. When she called out his name, he’d panicked and run.

  “That was enough for your father. He’d pulled himself up by his own bootstraps; Tommy could do the same. So Russell kicked out his younger brother. Just in time, apparently, because a few weeks later, your mother discovered she was pregnant.

  “Tommy, unfortunately, never really went away. He’d arrive unannounced at odd hours. Sometimes Russell was there. Often he wasn’t. Your mother, Leslie—Lucy, as she was known back then—”

  Bobby quickly scribbled down the name, while watching Annabelle’s lips form the word. Lucy. Lucy Grayson. He wondered what it was like for her to hear her mother’s real name for the first time, after all these years. But Schuepp was still talking, leaving little time for speculation.

  “…became so concerned that she’d keep all the lights off and the TV volume down so it would seem like no one was home,” Schuepp was saying. “Except Tommy persisted in showing up, generally within ten minutes of her returning home from a shift at the hospital. Leslie, your mother, became convinced that he was following her.

  “Russell confronted his brother, told him this foolishness had to stop. Tommy wasn’t invited into their lives anymore. If he showed up again, Russell was calling the cops.

  “Shortly thereafter, dead and mutilated animals appeared outside their apartment building. Skinned cats. Decapitated squirrels. Russell was convinced it was Tommy. He consulted with the police. There wasn’t much they could do without proof. Russell installed a home security system, added chain locks, even mounted a high-powered motion-sensitive light outside the front door. Leslie agreed not to walk home alone from work anymore. Instead, Russell walked her each way.

  “Gregory remembered one night finding Russell sitting in his office, staring at nothing. When Gregory knocked politely on the door, Russell told him, ‘He’s going to kill her. My father murdered my mother. Tommy will destroy my wife.’

  “Gregory didn’t know what to say. Life continued, and a few months later, Leslie gave birth. Tommy had disappeared somewhere; Russell didn’t know where and didn’t care. He loved being a new father. Was crazy about every aspect of it. He and your mother settled in and had the honeymoon they’d never gotten before. Until—”

  “Tommy came back,” Annabelle filled in quietly.

  “You were eighteen months old,” Schuepp supplied. “Later, Russell learned the only reason Tommy had vanished was that he’d served time on assault charges. Minute he was released, he pick
ed up just where he’d left off. Except he no longer cared about Leslie. He wanted you.

  “First time, he confronted Russell and Leslie on the street. They were walking home from the park, you were in the stroller. It was broad daylight. The minute he saw Russell and Leslie, Tommy crossed the street and blocked their path. ‘How are you, good to see you, is this my new niece? Oh, she’s gorgeous.’ He snatched you up before Russell could move, cooing and cuddling. Russell tried to get you back. Tommy twisted away. He had a gleam in his eye, Russell said. He was terrified. He wasn’t sure if Tommy was going to kiss you or toss you in front of oncoming traffic.

  “Naturally, Russell made nice. Leslie, too. Finally, they got you back, placed you in the carriage, resumed walking. But they were both terribly shaken.

  “Next day, Russell changed the locks and personally paid for a new security system for the whole building. He went back to the police, where they ran a background on Tommy and learned of his criminal history. There still wasn’t anything they could do, though. After all, it’s not a crime to visit your niece. They noted Russell’s concern, made a record.

  “Russell left the police station more frightened than when he’d arrived. He ended up talking to Greg about taking a leave of absence. He didn’t want to leave Leslie alone with the baby, not even for an hour. Greg talked him down. Russell had just received his doctorate. To take time off now would be disastrous for his career. Besides, your mother was no longer working, someone had to earn a living.

  “So Russell agreed to continue working, while Leslie made arrangements for her parents to visit. Surely there would be safety in numbers.”

  “Oh no,” Annabelle whispered. Her hand had come up, was covering her mouth. Bobby followed her train of thought. The grandparents she’d been told had died in a car accident. Somehow, he had a feeling the truth was going to be more devastating than a tragic fender bender.

  Schuepp nodded sadly. “Oh yes. Your mother’s parents came. Took you for a walk. Never came home. A uniformed officer found them sitting on a park bench side by side. Both shot through the heart with a small-caliber pistol. You were toddling around the grounds all by yourself, clutching a brand-new teddy bear. Attached to its neck was a gift tag reading ‘Love, Uncle Tommy.’

  “The police picked up Tommy immediately, questioned him about the shootings, but he denied all involvement. According to him, he’d stopped by the park, given you the bear, and chatted briefly with your grandparents. Everyone was fine when he left. The police searched his apartment but came up empty. Without the pistol, without any witnesses or other evidence, there wasn’t anything more the police could do. They suggested your father take out a restraining order. He said his mother had tried that.

  “That afternoon, he went to Greg’s office and announced that he’d made his decision. He and his family were going to disappear. It was the only way, he said, to be safe.

  “Once more Greg tried to be the voice of reason. What did Russell and Leslie know about life on the run? How would they get fake identities, new driver’s licenses, jobs? It wasn’t as easy as in the movies.

  “But Russell was adamant. When he looked at his brother, he saw his father. He had already lost enough to one man’s obsessive rage. He wasn’t going to lose anything more. And the more he talked, the more he brought Gregory around. It was Gregory’s idea that Russell and Leslie move to his home in Arlington. The deed was in Greg’s name, utilities, too. Surely it would be difficult for Tommy to trace Russell and Leslie to their new home in Massachusetts.

  “Gregory also gave me a buzz, explaining the situation. It just so happened we had an opening in the department, so we worked out the details. Russell and your mother would move to Arlington, I would offer your father a job at MIT. Naturally, I had to enter your father into the payroll department under his real name, Roger Grayson. But I smoothed things over with the right people, and for all intents and purposes, your father became Russell Granger, married to Leslie Ann Granger, parents of an adorable daughter, Annabelle Granger. Only the paychecks and other financial records said otherwise.

  “We thought we’d been so clever, but we hadn’t been smart enough.”

  “Tommy found them,” Bobby said flatly. Annabelle wasn’t talking anymore. She sat shell-shocked, too stunned for words.

  “That’s what Russell believed. There was a case in the news right as they moved to Arlington, the kidnapping of a young girl who could’ve been your older sister, Annabelle. Instantly Russell was nervous. He worried that Tommy was in the area, searching for Annabelle.”

  “Catherine’s case,” Bobby filled in. “Another guy did it, Richard Umbrio. But the strong physical resemblance between Catherine and Annabelle would’ve spooked Russell, made him think the worst.” He glanced at Annabelle. “Even drive your father to masquerade as an FBI agent, so he could get to Catherine in the hospital, question her.”

  “Tommy’s the one pictured in the sketch,” Annabelle murmured. “My father drew a picture of Tommy to see how Catherine would react.”

  “Probably.”

  She managed a crooked smile. “Told you there was a logical explanation.” But her face remained pale, drawn.

  “Umbrio, Umbrio,” Schuepp was muttering. “That’s right. The police finally arrested this hulking brute of a man, accused him of the crime. I remember now. Still, Russell refused to lower his guard. He took up karate, read obsessively on stalkers. I don’t know what it must have been like—first to lose his parents so young, then to feel that the entire tragic situation was happening again.

  “I know he felt very guilty for what your mother was going through. I know the few times I saw them together at functions, your father was hyperattentive, relentlessly cheerful. If he could smile broad enough, boom loud enough, then everything would be okay.

  “Your mother loved you, Annabelle,” Schuepp said quietly. “When the time came, she never hesitated.

  “Russell came to my office at the end of October. Tommy was back, leaving gifts for Annabelle at your home, stalking her. It was all his fault, Russell insisted. He hadn’t been thorough enough. Bank accounts, IRS records could be traced. It had only been a matter of time.

  “This time Russell had purchased new identities for his family, made arrangements to trade your old car for a new vehicle. Everything else was to be left behind. Fast and light, he told me. That was the key. He wouldn’t even tell me where you three would be going.

  “When he left, I remember wondering if you would make it. Or if I’d simply catch the end of this story one night on the news. For two weeks, all seemed well. And then that young girl, your friend, disappeared. Minute I heard the street where she lived, I knew who’d done it. According to your father, Tommy had never taken disappointment well.”

  “Did my father know? About Dori?” Annabelle asked urgently. “Did he talk to you?”

  “He called me three days later,” Schuepp supplied. “Said he’d heard on the national news. He didn’t know what to do. On the one hand, he was sure it was Tommy. On the other hand, if he returned to talk to the police…”

  “Tommy would be able to find him again,” Bobby filled in. “What about you, sir? Did you contact the police?”

  “I left an anonymous tip on the hotline number. Enough for my conscience to feel like I’d done something, and yet…”

  “Not nearly enough to help Dori Petracelli.” Bobby gave the man a look. “You knew a vital piece of information. If you’d come forward—”

  “The police would’ve pursued Russell and Leslie,” Schuepp stated matter-of-factly. “They would have dragged them back here to Massachusetts, exposed them to Tommy. The Petracelli girl was likely dead. I focused on the life that could be saved—yours, Annabelle.”

  Bobby opened his mouth. Before he could argue, however, Annabelle beat him to the punch.

  “Explain that to Mr. and Mrs. Petracelli. They were parents, too. They deserved better than to have their daughter written off, just so their neighbors could get
on with their lives.” She turned away bitterly.

  Schuepp poured another shot of scotch, pushed it toward her.

  She wouldn’t take it, though. Instead, she pulled herself together, setting her face in that resolute look Bobby knew so well.

  “One last question, Mr. Schuepp: Can you tell me my real name?”

  MY NAME IS Amy Marie Grayson. Amy Marie Grayson.

  I sat in the passenger’s seat of Bobby’s Crown Vic, clinging to my parents’ ashes, while trying out my real name again and again, waiting to see when it would roll naturally off my tongue. We were already back on Route 2. Driving somewhere. It hardly mattered to me.

  Amy. Marie. Grayson. It still felt unnatural, stilted on my lips.

  All of my life, I had considered myself two people: Annabelle Granger and Current Alias—whatever name I happened to have at the time. Now, according to Mr. Schuepp, I was actually three people: Amy Grayson, Annabelle Granger, and…well, et al.

  The notion confused me. I rested my head against the cool glass of my window, and for a moment I saw my father again, sitting across from me at Giacomo’s as we celebrated my twenty-first birthday, appearing content.

  My father had won. I never understood, because he’d never let me be part of the war he was fighting. But that night, my birthday, must have felt like a victory to him. He had lost his mother. He had lost his wife. But his daughter…Me, at least, he had kept safe, though it had cost him so much along the way.

  And I was amazed now, humbled in a way that brought tears to my eyes, that he had viewed my life as a victory. He had given up his career for me. He had given up neighbors, his home, his own sense of self. Ultimately, he had given up his wife.

  I can picture my father remote. I can picture him relentless, hard, aggressive. But I can’t remember him ever being bitter or mean-spirited. He always had his cause, his reason, even if his paranoia drove me crazy.