He breathed again. "You're right."

"Of course I am." She released his arms and leaned into him. Her head fit into the crook of his neck, and her body felt soft against his chest. Once, that had been enough, but now they had a family. They had Annabelle.

"Leo?" someone called.

With a deep breath, Leo turned and saw Detective Panteleoni standing in the driveway.

The detective nodded. "Can I have a word?"

Chelsea breathed against him. "I'm going to make some breakfast for us."

He watched as she moved up the porch steps. It was good to have his best friend back.

"Your next-door neighbor is quite a character," Chris said. "I haven't seen a commotion like that since my days on patrol."

"Louise likes drama."

"And how's your wife doing?"

Leo looked toward the side door. "Better."

"Grace mentioned that she's suffering from PPD. That has to be hard."

"It's been a challenge, but she's starting to come around. When this is all over, she'll get the treatment she needs. Right now, the medication she's on is sort of a Band-Aid."

"That's good. I understand she wasn't really attached to Annabelle."

"That's not true. She loves Annie." Leo shoved his hands into his pants pockets. "Who told you that?"

"We've been talking to everyone we can find who knows you and your wife, Leo. That's what we do."

"I know, but who would say that?"

"Forget that. What I was wondering is, do you think she ever acted on the violent thoughts she was experiencing?"

Leo couldn't believe Chris Panteleoni would talk to him this way. "So that's where this is going?"

"I'm advocating for Annabelle here. Did your wife ever take it out on the baby? Even in small ways?"

"Chelsea would never do anything to hurt Annie."

"But she was neglectful," Chris pointed out. "That could have hurt your baby."

"She would never try to hurt our daughter."

"But it happens in these cases. I'm sure you've read the accounts of mothers who kill their babies-for whatever reason-then try to cover it up by calling it an abduction."

"Really, detective? You think she killed the baby and hid the body?"

"Wow, you really cut to the chase there." Chris shrugged. "Honestly? It happens. Sometimes women with PPD, they just snap."

"Not this one." Leo squared off, getting in Panteleoni's grill. "You're wrong about Chelsea. She loves Annabelle."

"I believe that," Chris said. "But sometimes love isn't enough."

As Chris crossed the lawn, Leo was left feeling like a fool. He wasn't even home when Annie disappeared; what the h.e.l.l did he know about what had happened?

But then, he knew Chelsea. She would never hurt their baby.

But she was neglectful, Chris had said, and that part was true.

Inside the house, Chelsea was pouring coffee for her friend from the magazine, Sasha Barman. Sasha had helped with the search last night.

"I can't stay long today," Sasha told Chelsea. "I just wanted to check in on you. I hope you don't have the guilts just because of the way you've been feeling. A lot of new mothers get fed up and wish they could just return to their lives before the baby."

And that was exactly what Chelsea had wanted after Annabelle was born. She had missed her old life, her job, and her independence. She had been stuck on the couch, mired in depression. She had been glad to have Leo take their baby from her arms . . . but none of those elements could combine into a toxic molecule. Discontent and depression were not a sure-fire formula for a killer.

"You can't help the way you feel," Chelsea said quietly. "But I have a lot of regret. I wish I could turn back the clock a few days, go back and redo that night."

We all wish we could go back.

Facing away from the women while he poured himself another cup, Leo didn't know what to think anymore. He didn't want to play the "what if" game, casting his wife in scenarios colored with accusation. He didn't want to think anymore. Thoughts led to guilt and anger and fear for his daughter. If he was going to get through this, he would have to shut down the terrible thoughts and move ahead on autopilot.

Doubt was a swamp, and he couldn't afford to get stuck there right now.

He had to keep a clear head. That was what Annabelle needed.

Chapter 34.

It was sad, having to force your way into someone's home when she valued her privacy. Sad, but unavoidable. As Chris pushed open the front door of Louise Pickler's house, Grace hoped that the woman wasn't watching from the back of the patrol car, tears streaking her face.

Although it was against police procedure, Louise had wanted to wait in the police cruiser. Even in her time of duress, the bling of the patrol car seemed to lift her spirits. Fortunately, Jefferson didn't mind.

"As long as we've got to be here, she can sit in there," the young cop had said, and Grace had taken him up on it.

"Are we going for a ride?" Louise asked hopefully as Grace opened the door for her.

Jefferson s.h.i.+fted his cap back. "Uh-uh. No rides."

"You're such a hard-a.s.s," Louise said jovially as Grace closed the door.

Now, standing on the porch, Grace grew impatient as Chris struggled with the door.

"I'm not surprised," he said as he rocked the door to get it clear of debris behind it. "Looks like Ms. Pickler is a h.o.a.rder."

Seeing the stacks of old newspapers piled up to the ceiling and the layers of debris on the floor, Grace understood Louise's fear and shame. The woman was a packrat, but she knew it wasn't normal or healthy. It felt embarra.s.sing to have strangers picking through the trash in her home.

Grace winced as cardboard and foil crunched underfoot. "I'm not going too far, Chris. With garbage like this, there's bound to be an infestation." Mice and rats. Roaches and silverfish. Sometimes even racc.o.o.ns or squirrels.

"I guess we know why Louise wasn't having the neighbors over for c.o.c.ktails," Chris said as he stepped carefully around a mound of plastic bins, jumbled clothes, and countless wrinkled plastic bags stuffed with cloth and papers.

A doll peeked out from one of them, her hair mangled. Grace could decipher buckets and a broom head, a torn lampshade and a radio with an open, empty battery cavity. There was a small plastic treasure chest, but no treasures here.

"Let's bring the canine unit in," Grace said. There was a trained dog to sniff for cadavers, and another that could search for Annabelle Green. Grace figured it was worth bringing them both in, just to be sure.

The search of the house would take hours. That was the thing with police work: One small part of an investigation could suck up an entire s.h.i.+ft. Fortunately, Grace could do some searching on her iPhone. And it didn't hurt to be right outside Chelsea and Leo's house. There was a chance that a friend or neighbor they had forgotten to mention might drop in.

Already she'd seen Leo Green and a few friends from work head off to do a door-to-door search. It wouldn't hurt, and she understood that it felt better to keep busy. She had seen Chelsea's former boss, Sasha Barton, come and go. That Sasha had a real sense of style, stepping between small piles of dirty snow in those wedge heels that Grace avoided, sure she'd break an ankle on them. That long red coat would have screamed like a fire engine on anyone else, but Sasha swaggered to her car looking like a runway model. Last night, during the door-to-door search, Grace had learned that Sasha was from a big family and got her fill of kids through her nieces and nephews. Grace's take was that she was a good friend and not envious of Chelsea's baby. But that didn't necessarily hold true for the other employees at the magazine. Grace needed a list of the staff members who had seen Annabelle when Chelsea took her to the office the previous week. It was on her "to do" list.

While Chris worked with the canine unit, Grace sat in her car and tinkered. A detective from the precinct had sent her an e-mail saying that Eleni Zika and her mother, Maria, had stopped in at the precinct so that Eleni could be fingerprinted. The girl was being cooperative.

Grace had an e-mail from one of her friends who worked for the local school system. Dolly had sent her the most recent transcripts for Armand Krispalian and Eleni Zika. Armand had a three point two, with math and science being his strong suits. Ironic, that he did okay but his parents didn't really care. As for Eleni-poor kid-it looked like the events of the past year had taken their toll. Her GPA hovered dangerously on the brink of failure at one point nine. Of course, grades weren't everything, as Matt reminded her whenever he tanked on a test.

Grace called Eleni's home number and left a message for the girl's mother, Maria. It was worth talking with the mom. More information was always better. But unless some earthshattering development came along, Grace was ready to rule out Eleni and her boyfriend.

Next she called the lab. Crash, the technician, told her that he hoped to have the toxicology results by tomorrow. "Maybe late today if we're really lucky."

Grace didn't feel too lucky lately, not with baby Annabelle gone for more than twenty-four hours now. She thanked Crash, then shot off a prayer for the baby girl. Sometimes there weren't words in her mind, but only a flash of a message. Emergency, G.o.d. Innocent baby. Loving parents. Make this right.

Looking over her notes-mostly a list of names with bulleted items under them-she noticed that there were very few bullets under Helen Rosekind's name. Why had she and Chris had so much trouble finding any information on the baby nurse? Even law-abiding citizens left some paper trail. A driver's license or registered vehicle. A phone listing. A mortgage. Even an account with the local cable company.

But Helen Rosekind was a blank . . . as if she didn't exist. Chris had tossed it off, saying that she probably used her husband's name for everything. It was a good theory, but Grace was eager to learn more about the nurse. She called the agency that booked the baby nurses as sitters and identified herself. Megan, the young woman on the phone, was polite, but when Grace tried to get some background on Helen Rosekind, she was stuck on "no."

No information. No verification. No way.

"You would have to talk to my boss. In person. She says it's illegal to release personnel records."

"The rules change when it comes to a police investigation," Grace said.

"You would have to talk to her," Megan said.

"Can you put her on the phone?"

"I can make an appointment for you, if you want to come in."

Grace screwed up her face in annoyance. She'd bet a bottle of Dewar's that this Megan was young, drunk with the power of her first job, and checking her text messages while she was talking to Grace.

"Fine. Let's make an appointment then," Grace said, sick of being disregarded. "But if she can't see me this afternoon, she'll see me with a search warrant for your company records."

It was an idle threat, but it got her in that afternoon. She was just ending the call when she saw Emma Wyatt heading up the driveway, carrying two grocery bags. Grace would have waved, but she knew Emma couldn't see her behind the tinted gla.s.s of the car window. Her anonymity gave Grace an opportunity to blatantly study Chelsea's sister.

Taller and leaner than Chelsea, Emma had a certain grace and dignity that made her seem aloof at times. Her students probably looked up to her, Grace thought, as Emma tried to keep things positive and constructive. Grace could imagine these two sisters growing up together, the prim Emma trying to keep order while Chelsea turned cartwheels over her sister's rules.

As she pa.s.sed by, Emma's baby b.u.mp was evident beneath her short jacket. Actually, her belly was more obvious today, but maybe she was dressing to show it off-and rightly so. Yesterday, Emma had been hit twice, with the fear of a miscarriage and the news that her niece was missing.

Emma was met by Chelsea in the driveway, and she took one of her bags and gave her a kiss on the cheek. As Chelsea held the door for Emma, Grace wondered how much she really knew about her sister.

Did she know about her penchant for theft? Emma had been found guilty of shoplifting three times. The last time, she had been hit with a stiff fine and extensive community service.

Fortunately for Emma, her problem seemed to be under control. Her last arrest was more than five years ago.

But Grace had stumbled on some other surprises when she checked out Emma Wyatt.

A sudden trip, and a major move, far from New York.

Emma and her husband were scheduled to fly to Chicago at the end of the week. Jake Wyatt's a.s.sistant at the law firm had the gift of gab, and she had been eager to answer all Grace's questions. The couple was flying to the Windy City to meet the partners and explore their real estate options. They were looking at making a move in a matter of weeks! Emma had already given notice at her school, and they weren't even going to wait to have the baby here. . . .

For a woman who'd almost miscarried, Emma seemed to be making some radical changes in her life. Had she shared the news about the move with her sister? In the course of an investigation, it was suspicious to see a key player leaving town, but then maybe it was truly a coincidence.

As the morning waned, activity picked up next door. A minivan with Jersey plates arrived, and a woman with dark hair pulled into a ponytail emerged and opened the door to three children-a toddler and two older preschoolers who looked like siblings. From the Jersey plates, Grace suspected it was the older sister, who had kids that age. The woman corralled the children up the driveway, all three of them toting toys-including a lizard almost as big as the toddler-and canvas bags. Cute kids.

Wanting to meet anyone new on the scene, Grace got out of the car. She'd find some excuse for intruding.

Snow had receded from the edges of the lawn, revealing sprigs of gra.s.s that seemed far too brown to ever recover. At times like this, it seemed that spring would never warm the earth.

Glancing past the handful of police personnel still congregating outside Pickler's house, she saw a short girl emerge from a small late-model Honda that had just parked in front of the Wilkinsons' house. It was the spot where the dogs had lost the trail of Annabelle's scent.

Grace slowed her pace along the sidewalk, watching as the girl came into view.

Eleni Zika.

Was that where she tended to park when she visited the Maynard-Green house?

She paused and waited as the girl approached. Eleni wore a hoodie and a black backpack sagged down over her b.u.t.t. Such a tough look for a girl with a sweet, round face and a hairstyle that reminded Grace of Pippi Longstocking.

"Detective Santos . . . Chelsea told me that you don't think Krispy did it. But you didn't find Annabelle, did you?" Her tone was bleak, swollen with guilt. No kid that age should feel so bad.

"Not yet," Grace said. "But I'm surprised to see you here today. Shouldn't you be in school?"

"My mom called me in sick." Her face puckered. "I am sick. I feel so bad for Annabelle and Chelsea. And when I think that it might be my fault . . ." She folded her arms over her waist. "I really feel sick. Maybe it's cramps, I don't know."

"You know, sometimes I get sick with worry like that-especially with this job. I have to remind myself that I'm not helping anyone by letting stuff eat away at me. I can't help anyone if I'm home sick. Know what I mean?"

"I guess."

"Besides that, I don't think you have anything to feel guilty about. It's good that you went in to be fingerprinted. Thanks. That will help in our investigation, because we want to eliminate your prints from the ones found at the scene. Beyond that, we checked out you and Armand. Frankly, there was only one thing that raised some questions." Grace motioned her to the little tiled bench in the driveway. "It's kind of private. You want to sit for a minute?"

With a tentative scowl, Eleni sat down.

"It's about a birth certificate for Anthony Zika. You were listed as the mother. That was you, wasn't it?"

Eleni's dark eyes flooded. "It was a mistake . . . my mistake."