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fingers were callused, his grip firm. He held the handshake longer than necessary, and I knew he was appraising me, trying to get a read. He had cool gray eyes, the kind used to sizing up game.
    “Want some water? Something to drink?”
    “She already played Martha Stewart.” I jerked my head toward Sergeant Warren. “With all due respect, I’d just like to get this done.”
    The two detectives exchanged glances. Dodge took a seat, the one closest to the door. The space seemed overcrowded, closing in on me. I placed my hands on my lap, trying not to fidget.
    “My name is Annabelle Mary Granger,” I began. Dodge’s hand reached for the recorder. Warren stopped him with a single touch.
    “We’re off the record,” she told him. “At least for the moment.”
    Dodge nodded, and I took another deep breath, trying to rein in my scattered thoughts. I’d spent the past forty-eight hours rehearsing the story in my head. Obsessively reading all the front-page stories of the “grave” found in Mattapan, of the six remains that had been collected from the site. Details had been sparse—the forensic anthropologist could confirm only that the remains were female, the police spokes-woman had added that the grave was possibly decades old. They had released one name, my own; the other identities remained a mystery.
    In the absence of real information, and with round-the-clock coverage to fill, the TV personalities had begun speculating madly. The site was an old Mafia dumping ground, possibly a legacy from Whitey Bulger, the mobster whose murderous work was still being dug up around the state. Or maybe it was a former cemetery for the mental hospital. Or perhaps the hideous hobby of one of its homicidal patients. A satanic cult was operating in Mattapan. The bones were actually from victims of the Salem Witch Trial.
    Everyone had a theory. Except, I guess, me. I honestly didn’t know what had happened in Mattapan. And I was here right now not because of the help I could give the police, but because of the help I was hoping they could give me.
    “My family fled for the first time when I was seven years old,” I told the two detectives, and then with gathering speed ran through my story. The parade of moves, the endless procession of fake identities. My mother’s death. Then my father’s. I kept the details sketchy.
    Detective Dodge took a few notes. D.D. Warren mostly watched me.
    I exhausted the story more quickly than I’d expected. No grand finale. Just The End. My throat felt parched now. I wished I’d had that glass of water after all. I lapsed awkwardly into silence, keenly aware that both detectives were still studying me.
    “What year did you leave?” Detective Dodge, pencil posed.
    “October, ’82.”
    “And how long did you stay in Florida?”
    I did my best to run through the list again. Cities, dates, aliases. Time had dulled the specifics more than I’d realized. What month had we moved to St. Louis? Was I ten or eleven when we hit Phoenix? And the names…In Kansas City, had we been Jones, Jenkins, Johnson? Something like that.
    I started sounding less and less certain and more and more defensive, and they hadn’t even gotten to the hard questions yet.
    “Why?” Detective Warren asked bluntly when I had wrapped up the geography lesson. She spread out her hands. “It’s an interesting story except you never said why your family was running.”
    “I don’t know.”
    “You don’t know?”
    “My father never gave me the details. He considered it his job to worry, my job to be a child.”
    She arched a brow. I couldn’t blame her. By the time I was sixteen, I’d become skeptical of that platitude myself.
    “Birth certificate?” she asked crisply.
    “For my real name? I don’t have one.”
    “Driver’s license, Social Security card? Your parents’ wedding license? A family photo? You must have something.”
    “No.”
    “No?”
    “Original documentation can be found and used against