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down the exhibit.
    Minute passed into minutes. My hands grew shakier. I thought I should run while I still had the chance. Then I thought maybe I’d feel better if I could just throw up.
    Footsteps finally rang out.
    A woman appeared, walked straight toward me. Slim-fitting jeans, tall stiletto boots, a tight-fitting, white-collared, button-up shirt, and a really big gun, holstered at her waist. Her face was framed by a wild mass of blonde curls. She looked like she ought to be a cover girl. Until you saw her eyes. Flat, direct, unamused.
    That blue gaze homed in on me, and for one moment, something flickered across her face. She looked as if she might have seen a ghost. Then she closed the space.
    I took a deep breath.
    My father had been wrong. There are some things in life for which you cannot be prepared. Like the loss of your mother when you are still a child. Or the passing of your father before you had a chance to stop hating him.
    “What the hell?” Sergeant Detective D.D. Warren demanded to know.
    “My name is Annabelle Mary Granger,” I said. “I believe you’re looking for me.”

T HE OFFICES OF the Boston Homicide unit looked like they belonged to an insurance company. Bright, expansive windows, twelve-foot-high drop ceilings, pretty blue-gray carpet. The beige cubicles were modern and sleek, breaking the sunlit space into smaller desk areas, where black filing cabinets and gray overhead bins were decorated with plants, family photos, a child’s latest grade-school art project.
    I found the whole setup disappointing. So much for all the years I’d dedicated to
NYPD Blue.
    The receptionist gave Sergeant Warren a friendly smile as we walked in. Her gaze flickered to me, open, unassuming. I looked away, fingers fidgeting with my bag. Did I look like a perpetrator? A key informant? Or maybe the family of a victim? I tried to see myself through the receptionist’s eyes but came up empty.
    Sergeant Warren led me to a small, windowless room. A rectangular table filled most of the tiny space, barely leaving room for chairs. I searched the walls for signs of a two-way mirror, anything to fit in with my TV-prepped expectations. The walls were blank, painted a clean bone-white. I still couldn’t relax.
    “Coffee?” she asked briskly.
    “No, thank you.”
    “Water, soda, tea?”
    “No, thank you.”
    “Suit yourself. I’ll be right back.”
    She left me in the room. I decided that must mean I didn’t look too guilty. I set down my bag, surveyed the space. Nothing to look at, though. Nothing to do.
    The room was too small, the furniture too big. Abruptly, I hated it.
    The door opened again. Warren was back, this time bearing a tape recorder. Immediately, I shook my head.
    “No.”
    She appraised me coolly. “I thought you were here to make a statement.”
    “No tape.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because you just declared me dead, and I plan on keeping it that way.”
    She set the recorder down but didn’t turn it on. For the longest time, she stared at me. For the longest time, I stared right back.
    We were equal height, five foot four. About equal weight. I could tell from the expanse of her shoulders, the slight bulge of her crossed arms, she also trained with weights. She had the gun on her side. But guns had to be drawn, aimed, fired. I didn’t have any of those constraints.
    The thought gave me my first measure of comfort. My arms un-crossed. I took a seat. After a moment, she did, too.
    Door opened again. A man walked in, wearing tan pants and a long-sleeve dark blue dress shirt, credentials clipped at his waist. A fellow homicide detective, I presumed. He wasn’t huge, maybe five ten, five eleven, but he had a lean, sinewy build to go with a lean, hard-edged face. The moment he saw me, he also did a little double-take, then quickly caught himself and blanked his expression.
    He stuck out a hand. “Detective Robert Dodge, Massachusetts State Police.”
    I returned the handshake less certainly. His