I shook my head.
“Who gave them to you?”
“Justice brought me the first, and Colt gave me the second.”
“Justice . . . ,” she whispered under her breath.
I realized what she was thinking. “No. He wouldn’t—”
Her cell phone rang, making me jump. She answered it, and as she listened, her face darkened.
“How?” she said. “No, there’s been a mistake. It cannot possibly be—”
A pause.
“Yes, I know how the Internet works,” she snapped, “but this is a tabloid story. What’s the point in putting it online where anyone can see it for free? Who has it?”
She listened and then sniffed. “Never heard of them. Get in touch with someone there, and offer them ten thousand. Let me know when—”
Pause.
“What do you mean they don’t want to talk? They are a tabloid, correct? They want money. Now get on it, and let me know when that photograph is gone.”
She hung up and took a deep breath.
“Someone posted it on the Internet?” I said quietly.
“Ridiculous, isn’t it?” She shook her head. “They could have sold that to the Enquirer and made—” She stopped herself with a short laugh. “Well, they are fools, and that is all the better for us. It’ll be down before anyone sees it. I’ll get Colt’s lawyers involved. I’m sure there’s a law against posting things like that on the Internet.”
She lifted her Blackberry and typed. I thought she was texting the lawyers when she stopped and inhaled sharply. As she composed herself, she lowered the phone to her lap. I could see the screen, and it took a moment to understand what I was seeing. I knew you could access the Internet with some cell phones, but I’d never actually seen it done. That’s what this was. Her Blackberry browser open to a photograph . . .
It was us in the hot tub. Colt was lifting me out of the water, his hands cupping my breasts as I arched back, my eyes closed. The expression on my face—
“Oh!” I said, drawing back as if burned.
Karla looked down and realized what I’d seen. She snatched the phone up, as I heaved, gasping for air. She reached past me to put down the window.
“Breathe,” she said. “It’s all right. Everything will be all right.”
“I . . . I wasn’t. I swear.” I swallowed. “It looked as if we were . . . But we weren’t. I swear it.”
She didn’t ask what I meant. No one who looked at that photo would wonder what I meant. I was straddling Colt with my head thrown back, my expression looking as if . . . looking as if I were doing a lot more than kissing him.
“We will take care of this,” she said. “They made a mistake putting it on the Internet, and we will take full advantage of that. However . . .”
She touched my arm, and I turned to look at her.
“This is going to be very difficult to hear, and I hate to say it,” she said. “I take responsibility for you because I hired you and because I know you do not deserve this. My priority though . . .”
“Your priority is Colt,” I murmured.
“Colt and Isabella. I need to handle this for them. I will give you advice, and I will give you money—”
“I don’t want money.” My chin shot up. “I don’t need it.”
“I don’t mean hush money, Lucy. I mean compensation for your early termination. Covering your wages for the rest of the summer.”
Wages? Did she mean I was fired?
A hysterical giggle bubbled up in me. Did I think I’d be going back? Living in Isabella’s house? Caring for her kids? With that photograph out there for the world—
Oh, God, Isabella was going to see—
“P-please don’t let her see it.” My words tumbled out. “Don’t let Isabella see that photo.”
“I will do my best to prevent that,” Karla said slowly. “For now, let’s worry about you. I’m going to have the driver pull over at a bank machine so I can withdraw money. Then we’ll find you a place for the night. Call your mother as soon as you can. Tell her what’s happened. Once I leave, Lucy, as much as I hate to say this, you’ll be on your own, and you’ll need your mother.”
But what about Colt? He promised to take care of me.
That laugh almost erupted again, and this time I had to cough to cover it.
You really are a little fool, aren’t you? What did you think you’d do, run away into the sunset together?
Of course not. If Colt Gordon appeared right now, racing after us in his Ferrari to proclaim his love, I’d tell the SUV driver to hit the gas. I didn’t want Colt. I just thought when he said he’d take care of me, he meant that he’d make sure I didn’t suffer any fallout. He’d protect me from that. He’d ensure I was okay.
Colt didn’t mean it. He’d been playing a role. We got caught, and he was in damage-control mode, and that meant getting me the hell away from his family before I caused a scene.
I’ll take care of this.
I’ll take care of you.
Now go. Please just go.
“Lucy?”
I looked over at Karla. She held herself tight, but in her face, I saw genuine concern shimming under that careful facade. She felt sorry for me, but she couldn’t afford to. I wasn’t her client. I wasn’t her boss. I didn’t pay for that Blackberry in her hand or the diamond studs in her ears. I could be indignant about it. But I wasn’t. This was her career, and I would never expect her to risk it for an eighteen-year-old who had willingly gotten into a hot tub with her client.
Karla was being kind, more than she needed to be, more than I’d have expected. She was withdrawing money for me, proper compensation for lost wages, not an insulting payoff. She would put cash in my pocket, set me on my feet, offer what advice she could, and then give me a gentle push into the world, where I’d need to fend for myself. I didn’t deserve that consideration, and I would not forget her kindness.
“Thank you,” I said, my voice as calm and mature as I could make it. “I understand, and I appreciate any advice you can give.”
“Well, with any luck, you won’t need it because this will all be over by morning, and you’ll have the rest of the summer free along with an excellent reference from me and from Colt.”
A note in her voice said he’d be writing it with her standing at his shoulder if necessary.
“Now, let’s talk strategy,” she said.
Chapter Nineteen
New York 2019
I stare down at the photo on my phone. It’s the one I’d seen on Karla’s browser all those years ago. It didn’t go away that night. Karla had been so certain it would, and that seems ridiculously naive now, but it’d been 2005. Scandals hit the papers, not the Internet. No one had ever seen such a thing before . . . until me. The first major Internet-driven celebrity scandal. Not exactly an achievement for my resume.
Every time I’ve caught an accidental glimpse of this photo, I’ve turned away in mortification. Now, though, I look at it with the eyes of an adult, and I am angry. I see a girl who was drunk, possibly drugged. An eighteen-year-old virgin in a hot tub with a gorgeous, famous older man who wanted her, really wanted her.
I’d dated before that. Had a couple of boyfriends. Made out and fooled around, but it always felt not-quite-right. Like cakes baked in a toy oven. Those few minutes with Colt had been my first mature sexual experience, and as much as I hate the thought, I can’t deny it.
This is what enrages me about the photo. It has taken that moment and thrown it to the world for titillation and ridicule. I would always have regretted what happened, but I should have been allowed the memory of a regrettable experience, one I’ve learned from. Instead, that private moment is forever public, online for the world to see.
What makes it worse is Colt’s expression. He’s looking up at me like a quarterback who just scored the winning touchdown. Pleased with himself. Utterly and confidently and smugly pleased, grinning at my pleasure as if to say, “I did this.”
; It’s a self-satisfied grin, and it’s a proprietary one, too.
I won this girl. I’m going to have this girl, and I’m going to enjoy her, and I deserve this. By God, I deserve it.
Someone jostles me, and I glance up, startled. It’s just a passerby, but as soon as my gaze tears from that photo, I remember where I am and what I was doing.
I scroll past the photo and continue reading the article. It resumes to say that I’d been at Isabella’s hotel this morning, where I claimed to have been invited for breakfast.
Claimed? My hackles rise, but I smooth them down. This is CNR. Take everything with a ten-pound block of salt. I’ll get this sorted as soon as I show those texts to a lawyer.
I read the next line and almost continue past it. Then I stop and reread.
Callahan claims to have left Isabella Morales’s suite on finding the door open, but sources within the hotel say the police have evidence that she was inside when the hotel staff responded to an urgent call from Isabella.
The temperature plummets, goosebumps rising.
The police know I was in the room.
Did I really think I’d get away with that?
I didn’t think. Couldn’t, at the time, the primitive part of my brain screaming for me to flee. What I’d forgotten is that someone went to the trouble of luring me to the scene, which meant they’d find a way to prove I’d been in the room.
I need to admit to being inside before the police accuse me of it. Control the narrative.
As bad as this looks, I must remember that I was in my own hotel room when Isabella died. I arrived hours later after being lured to her hotel, which I can prove.
I’ve screwed up, and I may face criminal charges for my mistakes, but the murder allegations will be withdrawn.
I read the next line.
Sources at the hotel say Callahan and Isabella Morales argued yesterday during their afternoon meeting.
What? No. Isabella had met me with kindness and sent me off with a hug. There may have been tense moments, but even someone with their ear pressed to the door couldn’t accuse us of arguing.
Why the hell didn’t I test that recording? Why didn’t I make sure it worked? Well, maybe because I’m a music teacher, not a secret agent.
I force back the seething regret and read on.
Police believe Callahan returned in the early hours of the morning to confront Isabella Morales. Hotel staff confirm she was seen exiting the hotel shortly before five a.m. She then returned at 6:45. It’s believed she returned to remove evidence, most likely Isabella Morales’s cell phone, which is missing from the scene.
Returned and exited hours earlier? Staff can confirm it? Impossible.
But the rest . . . I was at the hotel at 6:50—that’s a matter of record. I thought that would help prove my case. Who returns to a murder scene hours later?
Someone who forgot something.
Like a cell phone.
The phone I did take.
I skim the rest of the article, which says that based on this and additional evidence, police have a warrant out for my arrest. Below that is a photograph. I look at it and blink.
The woman wears a pressed white Oxford blouse, slim-fitting black jeans and black ankle boots, with a chunky necklace and big-buckled belt. Her hair swings as she lifts a hand to remove her sunglasses. A woman on a mission, her mouth set in a firm line, as if daring someone to get in her way.
It’s me. A photo taken by hotel security cameras. Yet for a moment, I don’t recognize myself. It’s the expression. It isn’t resting bitch face. It’s full-on active bitch face, and it’s as foreign to me as my expression in that hot-tub shot.
We’re accustomed to seeing ourselves in a very select number of poses. Smiling for photos. Or caught off guard for a photograph but still alert and calm.
This hotel photo shows a side of me I don’t see. I wasn’t angry. Not even annoyed. I was steeling myself to see Isabella again. Yet I look ready to mow down anyone in my path.
I look like a bitch.
I look like a woman who could kill.
I glance up to see a fifty-something man across the road, frowning down at his phone. He looks up at me. Back at his phone.
My heart stops. He’s reading about me. CNR might get exclusive firsthand knowledge, but that won’t keep others from reposting their article, linking to it, sharing it on Twitter and Facebook . . .
The man looks up again. He smiles. There’s no fear or trepidation in that smile. It’s interest mixed with hesitant flirtation.
He’s not reading anything online about me. He glanced up from his phone to see a younger woman looking straight at him. Then he returned to his phone, only to look up and find her still watching him. He thinks I’m checking him out. I could almost laugh at that.
I give the man a quick wave with an embarrassed smile and shrug, which I hope conveys the message that I mistook him for someone else. I turn . . . and there’s a woman about my age, staring at me. Showing her phone to her companion whose gaze rises to meet mine, her face slack with horrified recognition.
I turn on my heel, stride around the corner and duck into the first building I see. It’s a housewares store. I move quickly down aisles of specialty peelers and designer juicers until I’m at the back with a view through the front window. The women do not walk past. Of course, they don’t—they just spotted a murderer. They’re on their phones to 911 right now, thirty seconds before posting #KillerSighting on Instagram.
I’d gone through hell in 2005, a mere year after Facebook launched, when social media wasn’t truly a thing. What would it be like now in the age of Twitter and memes and hashtags? Even thinking of it, I have to bite my cheek to keep from throwing up on the housewares shop floor.
The store clerk is busy on the phone with a customer and didn’t see me come in. I slip past a curtain into the hall. There’s a door leading out the back. A sign reads Emergency Exit Only. Does that mean it’ll set off an alarm? Only one way to find out. I push down the handle. No sirens sound, but I’m already gone anyway, darting past trash and recycling bins.
I’m quick-marching along the side street when my phone rings. It’s Mom. I keep moving as I answer.
“I have someone,” she says.
“Oh, thank God,” I murmur. “It’s hit the Internet. Well, CNR, but it’s already spreading. My photo is out there along with the news that I’m wanted for Isabella’s murder.”
Mom has a few choice words for CNR. Epithets like “bottom-feeders” and “terrible people.” After her G-rated tirade, she says, “I’m texting you the lawyer’s address. A friend from church recommended him. She said he’s one of the best criminal lawyers in New York City, and when I called, I left a message at the desk, but he phoned back two minutes later. He’d love to take your case, and he said I was absolutely right to tell you not to turn yourself in. You’ll do that with him.”
“Perfect,” I say as I read her text with the address.
“He’s expecting you at his office. He asked if you’d like a car to pick you up.”
“No, it’s about a mile from here. I can walk. Tell him I’m on my way now.”
I take a few basic identity-disguising steps along the way. I wear my sunglasses. I change into the lounging-around-the-hotel-room wear I’d grabbed from my suite—leggings and an oversized off-the-shoulder tee. I also buy a floppy hat from a street kiosk and sweep my red hair under it. Good enough. It’s not as if my photo is flashing across the screens in Times Square. Not yet, at least.
I make a wrong turn heading to the lawyer’s office and end up at the rear of the building. I don’t see a door, so I’m circling around when I’m passing the parking lot and . . .
There’s a police cruiser just inside the garage entrance. I slow and then take three steps backward.
Once again, I tell myself the police aren’t here for me, but once again, I decide to behave as if they are. I lose nothing by being cautious.
I head around the other way. As
I do, I take a closer look at the building. It’s in a decent part of town, but it’s no executive office tower. Mom’s friend seems to have exaggerated when she called Daniel Thompson, “one of the biggest lawyers in the city.” Right now, though, I’m a beggar who can’t be choosy.
I find a side door and slip inside. The lawyer’s office is on the tenth floor. Mom said to text Thompson when I arrived, so he could come down and meet me. I decide to skip that step. If there are police officers in the building—for any reason—I want a low-key entrance. The stairs it is, then.
I’m passing the ninth floor when I hear my name. Of course, my gut reaction is “Paranoid much?” But I still step toward the door and ease it open.
“You’re milking this for all it’s worth, aren’t you, Thompson,” a woman’s voice says.
“Of course I am,” a man replies, “for my client’s sake.”
The woman snorts. “For your sake, you mean. You love seeing your face on TV.”
“I am drawing necessary attention to my client’s case. She’s been wrongly accused of murder.”
“Yeah, according to her mother. I could skin cats on national TV, and my mom would claim it was all a misunderstanding.”
“Lucy Callahan is innocent, and I will prove it.”
“Save it for the cameras. Just remember, you owe us one, Thompson.”
“I owe you? I’m delivering the most wanted fugitive of the—”
“—morning?”
He continues. “You’re getting the arrest, on camera no less. All I ask in return is that you stay here until I text you. I don’t want to spook her. She’ll notify me when she arrives, and I’ll speak to her in my office. Once she’s calm, I’ll text you. You come to the door, and I’ll persuade Ms. Callahan that it’s for the best.”
“And you’ll claim you have no idea how we found her at your office?”
“Presumably, you tracked her phone.”
“Yeah, it’s not that easy. But whatever. Just hold up your end of the deal, or I’ll report you to the bar association. Pretty sure this is a hanging offense with them.”
Every Step She Takes Page 12