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as tall as Cecil with a rotund belly and a roll of fat that jiggled like Jell-O when she walked. But despite her domineering size, she had those marble-round eyes that could only depict kindness.
“I remember you. Detective Roosevelt, right? You’re the detec- tive on Annabelle’s case,” Brother George said.
“Was. The FBI took it over several years ago when it became a kidnapping, and it died there. It’s been out of my hands,” Roosevelt said. “Doesn’t mean I haven’t been studying it.”
Chandler pulled gloves from his backpack and began laying tarps around the bleeding package. He examined the exterior of the box, taking photographs from all angles.
“Do you think the skin coat has something to do with Annabelle?” Brother George asked.
“Possibly.” Roosevelt pulled a pair of gloves over her hands.
Chandler stared at Brother George as Roosevelt inspected the package.
“You’re opening it here?” he asked, then he caught Chandler’s prying eyes and realized they wanted to see his reaction to the items inside. All of the LeClaires were suspects.
Roosevelt tore through the tape to find an invitation to the Visage Collection Presentation wrapped like a scroll. Grasping it was a pale hand.
It’s a plastic hand, he told himself, resisting the temptation to poke the bloody flesh.
The abbot held his nose, gagging as he looked away.
A charm bracelet held the skin-vitation together, positioned to look like the limp wrist was wearing jewelry. Dangling from the chain was a cat charm. It was the bracelet that disappeared ten years ago with Annabelle Leigh.
The purplish hand was the same color as the flesh coat on the Visage runway. A bright red scar marred the wrist.
“The skin coat isn’t a new murder,” Brother George said. “The skin coat is Annabelle.”
“How do you know?”
“That is her charm bracelet.” He touched the scar on her wrist. “And that’s her scar. This is her hand.”