Every Step She Takes

by Armstrong, Kelley

  “Hey, Lucy.” He thumps the spot beside him.

  I slide in. “How’re you holding up?”

  He shrugs. Then he cuts a look my way. “I presume from your text that you know about . . .”

  “You and Isabella? Yes.”

  “So the police are right. You have her phone.”

  “I do, and I’m sorry about that. It’s a long story.”

  “Well, I’d like to hear it, but I think we should talk someplace a little more private.”

  I shake my head. “Sorry. I’ve . . . had trouble with that.”

  His brows shoot up. “You okay?” He pauses and then shakes his head. “Dumb question. You’re wanted for murder. You are definitely not okay.”

  “True. While a private talk makes sense, I accepted one with Tiana earlier today, and she notified the cops before I even arrived. After we spoke, she warned me, and I got out of there, but I’m being extra cautious.”

  “Tiana . . .” He shakes his head again and eases back, long legs outstretched. “When I was with the band, I was the ‘nice guy.’ That was my role, and not just in public. I was the one who made friends with every sound tech and roadie and superfan. There was this one roadie, though, an old-timer who just decided he didn’t like my face. Or maybe the color of my face. Whatever his problem, I made it my personal mission to win him over. Never did, but I kept trying, like a puppy determined to get a pet from the one person who hates dogs. These days, that’s me and Tiana. Even if she wasn’t Izzy’s kid, I’d like her, and she used to like me fine . . . until she found out about me and her mom.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “And I’m sorry she pulled that shit on you. At least she came around in the end. Tee is complicated, like her momma. Only, with Tee, there’s a prickly fence wrapped around that complicated interior, and most folks can’t breach it.” Another look my way. “You did, once upon a time. Which probably makes this harder on her.”

  I sigh, and he bumps his shoulder against mine. “That’s not an invitation to a guilt trip.”

  I look over at him. “I didn’t kill Isabella.”

  “If I thought you did, we would not be having this conversation. You’re being set up. Any moron can see that. Someone murdered . . .” He takes a deep breath and then says, in a low voice, “I’ve never wanted to kill anyone before. Never even wanted to hurt anyone. But when you find out who did this, you’d better make sure they’re arrested before you tell me. Or they won’t be the one going to jail for murder.”

  “I’m sorry. I know . . .” I swallow. “You won’t want to talk about this. I know that.”

  “Won’t want to talk about it.” He enunciates the words, rolling them out. “Lucy, you have no idea how much I want to talk about this. I want to stand on this fountain and shout it to the world. I love Isabella Morales, and she loved me, and what we had . . .”

  He rocks back. “Shit, this isn’t going to help.” He puts on his sunglasses and glances over. “I don’t remember ever not loving Isabella. When she invited me to that beach party, I thought . . .” A small laugh. “I was young, and hopeful and dumb enough to think she might be inviting me to her wedding anniversary party because she felt something for me, too. Turned out I was there . . .”

  “For me,” I say.

  “Yeah, I wasn’t sure if you knew that.”

  “Isabella told me.”

  “Of course she did. So she invited me as companionship for you. Maybe even a hookup for you. Which told me I didn’t have a hope in hell of getting with her. It changed nothing. When that bullshit hit with you and Colt, I totally took advantage. I was there for Izzy. I wanted her to see me as more than a kid. And she did, eventually . . . she saw me as a friend.” Another laugh. “That’s all it was for years. Me, pining after her and making do with friendship. Then . . .”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know what happened. Maybe I hit the magic age where she wouldn’t feel like a dirty old lady—her words, not mine. We got past the age barrier, and I got my dream woman, and she was everything I wanted and more. We were waiting for Jamie to get out of rehab, and then Isabella would divorce Colt, and we’d get married. I’d already given her the ring.”

  He folds his hands. “I have no idea where it is now. Probably hidden in a drawer, where no one will ever find it. Just like us—a secret no one will ever know.”

  “I’m so, so sorry. I really am.”

  “I always considered myself an excellent judge of character, and I remember the girl I met at that beach party. From the start, I told Izzy my theory about what really happened. Turned out, I was dead right. At least I got a chance to say I told you so.”

  He tries for a smile, but his lips quiver. He runs a hand over them. “We had five years together. I keep reminding myself of that. For five years, I got to hear Isabella Morales tell me I was the love of her life. I got all of her for five years, and I got her friendship for fourteen, and that is more than most people will ever have. More than I thought I’d have.”

  He looks at me. “Isabella died knowing the truth about that night, and she died forgiving you, and she died hell-bent on a mission to make things right. To tell your story—yours and hers. Circe and Penelope speaking out over the voice of Odysseus, that’s what she called it, and it meant so much to her. She died with a fire in her belly, Lucy. With her dignity restored, and that amazing mind set on a mission, and that’s something. It’s really something.”

  I tentatively reach for his hand, and when he takes mine, I squeeze, and we sit in silence. Then he straightens and says, “So you have a story for me.”

  “I do.”

  I tell him the timeline of the morning of the murder. Nothing in that surprises him. I suspect it’s like when Isabella told him what really happened fourteen years ago. It only confirmed what he’d already figured out.

  “You were in New York that night,” I say. “I know you were.”

  He nods. “I didn’t see her, though. We talked for over an hour that night. We were going to meet up for breakfast. She planned to sneak over to my hotel. I expected her at ten. Instead, as I was waiting, I found out what happened.”

  “Tiana didn’t notify you, I take it.”

  A short laugh. “I haven’t talked to Tiana in months. When she found out about me and her mom, I held off, letting her speak to Izzy before I did. Instead, Tiana acted like she didn’t know, so I played along. It was best to leave that ball in her court.”

  “What about Colt?”

  A low rumble, almost like a growl. “Colt and I haven’t been on speaking terms in fourteen years. I’m cordial to him in public for Izzy’s sake. I’ve wanted nothing to do with him since he messed around with you. He hurt her, and he humiliated her.”

  “Do you know if Isabella had any problems with him the night of her death?”

  “Nothing more than you’d expect. He didn’t like her talking to you. Really didn’t like it. Unfortunately, he was in LA when she died. Otherwise, he’d be my number-one suspect.”

  When I don’t comment, he takes off the sunglasses, and his eyes narrow. “He was in LA, wasn’t he?”

  I still stay nothing.

  “Lucy . . . even if you tell me he was here, I’m not going after him. That would be critical information for the police, though.”

  “He flew into Connecticut around midnight.”

  He frowns. “Where in Connecticut?”

  “New Haven.”

  “To see Jamie?”

  When I frown, Justice says, “Ah, so we’re trading valuable information here. I didn’t know Colt was on the East Coast that night, and you didn’t know Jamie’s rehab is outside New Haven. That’s not public knowledge. It explains why Colt was here, though.”

  “To see his son.”

  “Yeah. A dick move from a dick. Shocking.”

  I arch my brows. “Visiting his son in rehab is a dick move?”

  Justice gives me a look. “That wasn’t Colt being Daddy-of-the-Year. It was Colt gathering reinforcemen
ts for his battle with Isabella over you. Because that’s what your kid in rehab really needs—you showing up at midnight to pull him into a fight with your mom.”

  “Colt wanted Jamie to side with him and agree that Isabella should stay away from me.”

  “Which proves Colt didn’t know the first damn thing about his son, as usual. Jamie sided with you in that scandal crap. We agree on that, me and him. Always have.”

  “Jamie?”

  “He said there was more to the story. Well, he did once he was older. At the time, he wouldn’t talk about it. But when he was a teenager, if your name came up, he’d say you didn’t have a fling with his father, that it was a misunderstanding. Izzy didn’t argue—if he believed that, so be it.”

  “It affected him, though. The scandal.”

  Justice purses his lips. “Not really. Of the three, I think he was the least impacted. By the scandal, at least. Losing you was another thing.” He glances over. “But if you think the kid was permanently traumatized? Hell, no. Jamie’s problems go deeper than some silly tabloid scandal, and they all trace back to Daddy.”

  “His relationship with Colt? I do remember . . . issues.”

  “Yep, Colt had a certain set of expectations for Jamie. He was the son of Colt Gordon, action star. You gotta be a man’s man to follow in those footsteps.”

  “And that was never Jamie.”

  “Toxic masculinity is toxic. Isabella did her best, but even when she made Colt shut his mouth, Jamie could sense his father’s disapproval. Sports? Yes. Ice skating? No. Music? Sure. The violin? Hell, no. Colt judged, and Jamie felt that judgment. He wasn’t living up to expectations. Colt was certain his son was gay. Turned out he’s not . . . and Colt’s Princess Tiana is. Oh, the irony.”

  “How’s Jamie doing?”

  Justice brightens. “Good. Great, actually. We’re friends. Have been for years. I think he knows about his mom and me—he’s hinted at it—but Izzy wanted to wait until he was released to tell him officially. Jamie has a self-medication problem, no doubt about that. But even in his addiction, he’s responsible as hell. Checks himself into rehab and stays there until he’s back on track.”

  “Good.” I nod. “That’s really good.”

  “If you were picturing some broke-down mess, that’s not Jamie. He’s a kid with demons, but a kid who’s fighting them tooth and nail. Which is why this bullshit with Colt pisses me off. I’ve been trying to talk to Jamie since Sunday. So has Tiana, from what I’ve heard through mutual friends. Jamie’s gone into self-imposed lockdown. We’re waiting him out. You remember what he’s like. He needs his space, and he wouldn’t appreciate either of us driving up there to hover. Now that I know Colt was there Sunday night, though, that puts a whole new angle on it. Jamie isn’t just in need of alone-time to deal with his mom’s death. He knows his dad was an hour from New York. He’s working that through, deciding what to do about it.”

  “Because Colt could have seen Jamie and still had time to kill Isabella.”

  “Exactly.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  After I leave Justice, I linger, making sure he walks away first. If I am identified, I don’t want him pulled into it. Then, as I’m making my way out of the square, I hear a voice that has my brain perking up like a happy puppy.

  Marco?

  Of course it’s not Marco. What I’m very obviously hearing is the contralto Italian-accented voice of a man who speaks perfect English, which is a lot more common in New York than an American speaking perfect Italian in Rome.

  Still, I look. I can’t help it. I even spot the back of someone who could be Marco over by the entrance to Juilliard. Dark curly hair. Athletic physique. He’s wearing a tight T-shirt and cutoff jean shorts, and while he presents a very fine rear view, that is definitely not Marco’s fashion style.

  He’s talking animatedly to a man and a woman. That’s also not Marco’s style despite the stereotype of the gesticulating Italian. With reluctance, I pull my gaze away to scan for who is actually speaking in that Marco-like voice. The hot-guy-in-cutoffs quarter turns, and I stop so abruptly my shoes squeak.

  It’s Marco.

  A fantasy flits through my brain, that after e-mailing me, Marco hopped onto a flight to New York and tracked me down to offer his help.

  The problem with that story? The tracking-me-down part. I’m a fugitive, and he isn’t exactly a private eye.

  This is just some guy who looks enough like Marco that my brain is conflating him with another nearby tourist who sounds like Marco. Marco wouldn’t be caught dead in that outfit, and he doesn’t gesticulate like this.

  So it’s not him.

  Except it is. I’m looking at the face I’ve woken up beside for countless nights. Which makes no logical sense.

  I’m losing my mind.

  Someone laughs loudly, and not-Marco glances over. I sidestep fast behind a knot of students. As he turns, I see his face full-on, and there is no doubt it is Marco, right down to the cleft-lip scar.

  The woman with him turns my way. In her hand is a small video camera. I follow her gaze as it lands on the spot where I’d been sitting with Justice. The now-empty spot. She lets out a curse that has the blond man beside her jumping to attention.

  They’re journalists.

  No, they’re paparazzi. I know the look.

  What is Marco doing with paparazzi?

  Do I want to know?

  I do. Yet the woman has realized I’m no longer where I’d been, and she’s moving away from Marco, her gaze scanning the fountain square.

  I withdraw. I must, as much as I want to figure out what the hell is going on here.

  I slip around a restaurant and onto the sidewalk. Then I move as fast as I dare, adopting the New Yorker walk, purposeful strides that cut through the tourist clusters.

  Marco.

  That was Marco.

  What is he doing here?

  Not just in New York, but with a couple of papar—

  “Keep walking,” a voice says, and I’m so distracted that I inwardly exhale in relief, thinking it’s Marco. Before I can even look over, I realize my mistake because I made it before, waking in a park and thinking the voice whispering in my ear was Marco’s.

  It’s the same voice.

  I stiffen, but the man’s arm is already around my waist, pulling me against his side as we walk. My insides explode with panic, the air suddenly too thin to breathe.

  Earlier, I thought I’d be safe in public. I am safe. We’re surrounded by people on a busy sidewalk. I just need to be sure he doesn’t take me anyplace private, and I’m not stupid enough to allow—

  Cold presses against my side, and this time, it isn’t a knife. It’s a gun.

  “Keep walking,” he says in a voice so pleasant it chills me even more than that icy gun barrel.

  I glance at him.

  “Eyes forward, Lucy,” he says. “We’re just a happy couple out for a stroll.” Another two steps. “I think it’s time you and I had a chat, don’t you?”

  I look around.

  “You could do that,” he says, his voice still conversational. “It’s a busy street. You can scream. You can run. And you can find out how serious I am about pulling this trigger.”

  Another two steps.

  “Have you ever seen hit men in movies?” he asks. “They go through elaborate schemes to eliminate a target. It’s Hollywood bullshit. A silenced gun. A busy street. A nondescript guy who shoots and keeps walking. Or maybe he’ll shout for help. Oh, my God, this woman just fell to the sidewalk! She needs medical attention! Then as the crowd gathers, he slips away, invisible.”

  My heart thuds so loud I struggle to speak. “Is that what you are? A hit man?”

  “Mmm, no, that’s a very specific job description, and I’m much more flexible. You killed Isabella Morales, Lucy, and someone has decided they can’t rely on the justice system to see actual justice done. You—”

  “Excuse me,” says a voice in a heavy Italian accent.
>
  The man pretends not to hear and walks faster, but then he stops short as the speaker grabs his arm.

  Marco’s gaze doesn’t even flick my way. He just meets my captor’s glare with a disarming smile.

  “Excuse me,” Marco says again. “I look for . . . I look for 911 monument, yes?”

  “Take your goddamn hand off my—”

  “The 9/11 Memorial?” I say quickly, as if trying to get rid of this tourist.

  Marco releases the man and turns my way. “Grazie.”

  I give directions. As I do, I cut my gaze subtly toward the gun. The man looks as if he has his hand casually resting on my back, jacket draped over his arm. The gun is hidden beneath it. Marco nods without even following my gaze. He’s already figured that out—the jacket over an arm in June is a giveaway.

  Marco asks me to repeat a few parts of my directions. My captor grows increasingly impatient, but he doesn’t dare make a scene.

  “Lincoln subway station, yes?” Marco says.

  “Right. You want to head back to the Lincoln Center subway—”

  I’m not even sure what Marco does then. It happens too fast. I’m midsentence, and he’s listening intently. Then I’m shoved aside, and when I catch my balance, he’s got my attacker by the arm. A sharp twist, and Marco is bouncing away, holding the jacket in a bundle.

  “And I’m not going to tell you again!” Marco says, slamming his open palm into the man’s chest, his accent American now. “I catch you sniffing around my girl, and I will kick your ass. You got it?”

  People part around them, as if the two men are traffic cones that shot from the concrete.

  Marco continues his diatribe as my stalker struggles to regain his mental footing. I spot an available cab and leap to the curb, waving. Marco doesn’t seem to notice, but he has the handle before the taxi rolls to a stop, yanking open the door and bustling me inside. He climbs in behind me as I tell the driver to “just drive.”

  My stalker lunges for the door as the cab pulls away.

  I spin on Marco. “What—?”