Every Step She Takes

by Kelley Armstrong

  I ring the bell. Wait. Ring again and add a knock for good measure. When she still doesn’t answer, I press my fingers to the door and push it open an inch.

  “Isabella?” I call.

  Music plays upstairs, and I raise my voice, but I’m still not sure she’d hear.

  I send a text.

  Me: The door’s open. I’m coming in.

  She doesn’t respond, and I push the door and slide through.

  “Isabella?” I call.

  Still no answer. I walk into the living area. There’s no sign of breakfast.

  I stop at the bottom of the spiral stairs leading to the second floor.

  “Isabella? I’ll just wait down here, okay?”

  No answer. I check my phone. No reply to my text, either.

  I call Isabella’s number . . . and her phone rings right beside me. It’s been left on the sofa. Well, that’s not going to help.

  I climb the stairs slowly, still calling her name. When I reach the top, I follow the music to the open bedroom door.

  “Isabella?”

  Nothing.

  I peek through to see an unmade bed.

  I pause as I remember all the times I’d walked past Isabella’s open bedroom door to see her making her bed the moment she rose. A habit from her grandmother, she once said. So that bed snags my attention, but at fifty, she probably no longer feels quite so compelled to heed her grandmother’s rules.

  As I step back, I spot a slipper protruding from behind the bed, and I have to smile. It’s a ridiculous novelty slipper—a giant bear paw, complete with claws. My mind trips back fourteen years to Isabella walking into the kitchen wearing them.

  You like my footwear? she said with a laugh. The kids got us themed slippers last year. Princess ones for me, and these for Colt. Beauty and Beast. He never wears his, so I stole them. Which one I’m wearing is a hint to my mood. She winked at me. These mean I’m preparing for a call with the studio execs, and I’m summoning my inner Beast.

  That’s when I see the angle of the slipper. It hasn’t just been cast off. There’s a sliver of leg visible above it.

  “Isabella!” I tear around the bed to find her supine on the floor, her head against the base of the bedroom Jacuzzi. Blood haloes her dark hair, and there’s a deep gash on her forehead.

  I fall beside her and grab her shoulder.

  It’s cold. Her body is cold.

  No. It’s just chilly in here with the air conditioning pumping. She tripped and hit her head on the tiled step, and she’s unconscious.

  She isn’t moving.

  Because she’s unconscious.

  Her lips aren’t moving. Her chest isn’t moving. She’s not breathing.

  I can’t be sure of that. I’m not a doctor.

  You know how to check. Two summers as a lifeguard, remember?

  I press my fingers to the side of Isabella’s neck. Her cold, clammy neck. I tell myself it’s just cool to the touch.

  Unnaturally cool, you know that.

  I swallow hard. My fingers don’t detect a pulse, but with that voice of doom clanging through my head, I might not be checking properly. I try again. I watch for signs of breathing, of a heartbeat.

  There are none.

  Isabella is dead. She hit her head on the step and died here, alone.

  That makes no sense. Look, Lucy. Think.

  The gash is on her forehead, meaning she should be lying on her stomach. Instead, she’s resting peacefully on her back with her eyes closed.

  Someone put her here.

  Someone all but crossed her arms over her stomach, leaving her looking as peaceful as a corpse in a casket, with that halo of blood . . .

  Why is there blood behind her head when the injury is on her forehead? There’s no trail of it down her scalp.

  I see blood under her nostrils, and I realize her perfect nose isn’t quite straight. There’s smeared blood on her cheek and chin, as if partially washed away.

  She’d been facedown on the carpet. Facedown and bleeding, and then someone turned her over and cleaned her up and left her ready for her close-up.

  I stagger backward. As I do, I bump the bed. I look at it again. Only the coverlet is pushed down, crumpled, the sheet still neatly tucked in. I catch sight of a gold square on the floor and bend to see a wrapped chocolate, the type left during turndown service.

  Isabella didn’t sleep in this bed. Someone just yanked back the covers and rumpled them to look as if she did.

  This has been staged.

  And I’m part of the setting.

  Isabella is dead, murdered, and now my fingerprints are everywhere.

  Yes, my fingerprints are everywhere . . . because I found her body. I just need to report this and explain. I have the texts showing that she called me here.

  That niggling voice in my head clears its throat.

  About those texts . . .

  I grab my phone and skim the messages. The first came at 5:53.

  I may not know much about forensics, but I’ve read enough mysteries to realize a body wouldn’t go cold in an hour. Even if that could happen, it doesn’t explain the bed.

  I scroll through the messages. They don’t not sound like her, but there’s also nothing distinctly in her voice.

  Did the texts actually come from her phone?

  I race down the stairs so fast I tumble on the last three. Her phone still lies on the couch. I reach for it and then stop. I can explain away fingerprints upstairs, but not on her phone.

  Did I leave fingerprints upstairs?

  In my initial panic, I’d envisioned my prints everywhere, but I don’t actually recall touching anything except Isabella herself, and I don’t think prints could be lifted from that.

  I held the railing, but I’d been here yesterday, and no one would have cleaned since then.

  Why am I thinking this through? I’m going to report her body and admit I was here.

  Is that wise?

  Yes, yes, it is. Whatever my experience with the media and the police, I still trust them in something like this. Isabella’s been dead for hours, and I only just arrived, and there will be no evidence I killed her.

  Those texts . . .

  If someone summoned me to this room, that means I’m being set up.

  Maybe so, but it’s poorly done. I’ll be fine. I’m not about to leave prints intentionally, and the trail I have left supports my story.

  I will call it in. I just want a look at Isabella’s phone first. I need to know what I’m dealing with here.

  I grab a facecloth from the main bath and lift the phone. Then I realize I can’t check texts without touching the screen. I’ll need to wipe it down afterward.

  The phone tries to recognize my face. It can’t, obviously. I glance upstairs and shiver.

  I need to see the texts before the police get hold of this phone. I need to know if they came from it.

  And I need to know what else happened last night, who the last person was that Isabella spoke to. Protect myself by having all the facts before I let the police take the phone.

  Feeling like a ghoul, I slip back upstairs, bend over Isabella’s body and unlock the phone. Then I go into settings, turn off the screen lock and—

  The doorbell rings. I shoot up from my crouch, slip to the steps and creep down. The ring comes again.

  Should I answer it? Throw it open and say, “Isabella Morales is dead!” Or casually open it and pretend I just arrived, and we’ll “find” her body together?

  Go away, please. Just go away so I can call 911 and do this properly.

  Otherwise, how will it look? I’m found in the room with a dead body, a murdered woman whom I allegedly had every reason to hate.

  My gut seizes.

  I must be the one to report this. Anything else will heap suspicion at my feet.

  I’m frozen between the living room and the foyer. If that door opens, I’ll grab it and say I’ve found her. That’s all I can do. Play this through with honesty. I found Isa
bella. I was just about to call 911 when the doorbell rang, and I raced down to answer it.

  A keycard slides through the reader. I snatch my purse from the floor and lunge forward, ready to yank open the door and tell whoever’s there—

  As I reach for the knob, I see what’s still clutched in my hand.

  Isabella’s cell phone.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I’m holding a murdered woman’s cell phone. I’ve unlocked it. My fingerprints are all over it.

  The door starts to open, and I dive behind it. I don’t think. I can’t. I panic and scramble behind the door. Then I see the closet, its sliding door halfway open.

  A woman knocks and calls, “Ms. Morales?” and as she does, I creep into the closet and ease the slider almost shut.

  Footsteps sound.

  “Ms. Morales?” a woman calls tentatively. “I am sorry to bother you, but we received a call that you were in trouble. I have brought security.”

  Someone reported a problem? How? I haven’t made any noise.

  No one heard anything, you idiot. You’re here. That’s what counts. You’re here, and whoever killed Isabella knows it. Now you’re about to be caught hiding in the damn closet. Are you trying to help the killer frame you?

  Two people enter, one set of light footsteps and another heavier. The security guard and the staff member who brought him. They whisper right outside the closet, and I hold my breath. All I see is the front door, pushed against the closet. Then that closes with a whoosh as they decide the woman should lead the way in case Ms. Morales is still in bed. The guard will follow right behind.

  As they head inside, I check my phone to see that my final text to Isabella—telling her I’m here—has been read.

  Isabella’s killer is in this suite. They picked up Isabella’s phone downstairs while I was in her bedroom, and they read my message—

  No, that’s not possible. When I picked up Isabella’s phone, my text showed as a new notification. Someone read it while I had her phone in my hand.

  I’m about to say that’s impossible when I remember one of my music students getting texts on her watch. I’d marveled at the technology, and she’d teased that I was showing my age. She’d shown me how messages from her phone appeared on both her watch and her tablet, and they could be answered from any of the three.

  I stuff Isabella’s phone into my purse as the stairs creak. I peer through the cracked-open closet door just as the security guard’s pant legs disappear up the stairs.

  Now’s your chance. You have about twenty seconds between them finding the body and calling for help.

  Run, Lucy.

  I take a deep breath.

  I will not run. I haven’t done anything wrong. I was lured here, and I can prove it. I just can’t afford to be found in this damn closet. Or found with Isabella’s cell phone.

  I consider my options and decide it’s best not to be found in her room at all. Pretend I just arrived after receiving those texts.

  I slip off my ankle boots and ease open the door. Footsteps overhead walk into the master bedroom. I brace for a scream. Instead, there’s a gasp and then,

  “Ms. Morales!” The man says.

  “Is she—?”

  “Call—”

  I don’t hear the last. I’m already out the door. I fly past the elevator, following the emergency exit signs to the stairwell.

  Twenty flights of stairs. They’re empty, and as I zoom down, I wipe off Isabella’s phone.

  I have to pause at the bottom to catch my breath and pull on my boots. Then I take out my phone. However bad this might look, I have proof that yesterday’s talk with Isabella wasn’t a heated argument. Proof that we’d parted on good terms, as supported by my texts.

  I take out the phone and flip to the recording. I put it to my ear and press Play and . . .

  I hear voices. Muffled and indistinct voices. I turn up the volume, and the distortion only comes louder as my eyes round in horror.

  The phone didn’t pick up the conversation through my purse. I never checked that it would work. I’d just blithely hit Record and left it in my purse, pleased with myself for being clever.

  Not clever at all.

  I don’t have a recording of our conversation, just voices so muffled I can’t even tell who’s who.

  Deep breath.

  I didn’t kill Isabella, and that’s what counts.

  I step from the stairwell with as much dignity as I can muster. There’s no one in sight. I walk into the crowded lobby and take a seat in a plush chair.

  With a tissue, I surreptitiously remove Isabella’s phone and tuck it under the seat cushion. I’ll come back for it later. Then I head onto the elevator and hit the button for the penthouse level.

  It is only as the elevator doors open again that my brain screams a flaw in my plan. That final text I sent—the one saying Isabella’s door was unlocked and I was coming in. It proves I didn’t arrive just now.

  I reach to stop the doors from opening, but of course, they still do. And there’s a security guard standing right there, blocking the way to Isabella’s room.

  I could retreat. Pretend I have the wrong floor and . . .

  He turns and sees me.

  I step off the elevator. The door to the penthouse is open, and inside, people are talking, voices coming fast and urgent.

  I look toward it. Before I can say a word, the guard says, “If you’re here to see Ms. Morales, there’s been an incident. You’ll have to come back later.”

  Retreat.

  Just retreat.

  No, I need to be honest. Or as honest as I can be under the circumstances.

  I cast a worried look toward the penthouse and then back to the guard. He’s maybe forty. Bald with a beard that tries for trendy and fails.

  “I was just up here,” I say. “I was meeting Isabella for breakfast, and the door was ajar. She wasn’t answering. I texted to say I was coming inside, but that felt weird, so I went downstairs and waited for her to call.”

  “You were up here earlier?” the guard asks.

  I nod. “Maybe twenty-five minutes ago?” I check my phone. “Twenty-eight, apparently. The door was ajar. I figured that was accidental, and I shut it. She never did answer my text, so I came back up. Is she okay?”

  He says nothing. Just studies me. A slow once-over—a little too slow for comfort—and then he eases back.

  “What was your business with Ms. Morales?” he asks.

  “Breakfast.” Like I said. “We were supposed to have lunch, but she texted this morning to ask if she could switch to breakfast.”

  His eyes narrow. He checks his watch. “Awfully early, isn’t it?”

  “Her plans changed. I said I was up, and she asked if I could come over right away.”

  His lips purse behind the sparse beard. His gaze slides over me again, still slow, as if using the excuse.

  “Were you the redhead in those Jurassic movies?”

  I laugh softly. If the guy thinks I look like Bryce Dallas Howard, he’s clearly seen too many “celebrities without makeup” tabloid spreads. He must know Isabella is in showbiz, and Ms. Howard is probably the only red-haired actress he can think of.

  The question does make me relax, though, and I say, “No, but thank you. That’s very flattering. I’m just an old acquaintance of Isabella’s.” I cast an anxious gaze at her room. “Is she all right?”

  The elevator opens. A gurney comes off, and I gasp, while mentally reminding myself not to oversell this.

  “Did something happen?” I say.

  The guard tugs me aside to make way for the paramedics though I’ve already moved. He uses the excuse to hold me there, his thumb rubbing my bare forearm.

  “I’m in the way,” I say. “I should go.”

  “Better give me your contact information first,” he says. “In case they need it.”

  I glance toward the room. “She is all right, isn’t she?”

  “Give me your card, and I’ll have some
one get back to you.”

  “Thank you. I don’t have a card, but I’ll jot down my name and number.”

  I write Genevieve Callahan and my cell phone on a scrap of paper. As I pass it over, I add, “Isabella calls me Lucy, but Genevieve is my legal name.” I don’t want anyone claiming I tried to hide my identity, but nor do I want to write “Lucy Callahan” on anything involved with Isabella.

  As he pockets the scrap, the elevator doors open, and he catches my arm again, using the excuse to pull me aside, though by now, I’m ten feet from the elevator.

  “Are you sure you’re not an actress?” he says. “I feel like I’ve seen you before.”

  “Excuse me,” says a voice over my shoulder. I turn to see a woman about my age, wearing a suit. I think she’s with the hotel . . . until I spot the two uniformed officers behind her. My gaze drops to her detective’s badge.

  “Is something . . . ?” I swing on the security guard. “Is Isabella okay?”

  “Do you work here?” the detective says brusquely to the guard.

  He straightens. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then you’re supposed to be guarding this floor. It’s a crime scene, and the media is going to descend at any moment . . .” A pointed look at me. “If it hasn’t already.”

  “Cr-crime scene?” I say, my voice rising.

  “She’s not a reporter,” the guard interjects. “She knows Ms. Morales. She was here for breakfast with the lady.”

  And with that, my chance to escape evaporates. Which is fine. I have to do this sooner or later.

  The detective tells me that Isabella is dead, apparently from a slip and fall, and I pretend I just found out. I’m shocked, and . . . Oh, my god, was she in the bathroom? Showering for our breakfast? Maybe if I’d gone inside, I could have saved her.

  I hate myself for my performance. Earlier, I’d thought this would be easy. A small lie. One little omission.

  Yes, I came to the hotel. Yes, I went to Isabella’s suite. But I didn’t find her body.

  It’s not simple. I have to dredge up every film-camp acting lesson. Even then, I stand outside myself, critiquing.