Every Step She Takes

by Kelley Armstrong

  You don’t seem shocked enough to have just heard the news.

  You seem too shocked for someone who already saw the EMT go into the suite.

  You don’t seem upset enough for having just found out an old friend is dead.

  You seem too upset over someone you haven’t seen in years.

  Once I’m past my “Oh, my God, Isabella is dead” performance, the woman—Detective Kotnik—leads me into the suite, where she can speak to me in relative privacy.

  I tell her everything, and I show her the texts. Those definitely catch her attention. Whatever the EMTs have said about possible time of death, she knows it’s significant that I received these barely an hour ago.

  That’s when she sends one of the officers to look for Isabella’s phone, and my moment of panic turns to one of relief. It may be a good thing they won’t find it here. It’ll look as if Isabella’s killer took her phone to lure me in.

  Detective Kotnik says nothing about the possibility that Isabella isn’t the one who contacted me. I don’t, either. I remind myself that if I hadn’t seen Isabella’s body, I’d be confused and concerned—and maybe a little curious—so I regularly glance toward the second floor, where the EMTs and Kotnik’s partner work.

  Kotnik takes my statement. When she asks what I was talking to Isabella about, I say it was a mix of personal and business, which is not untrue. I knew Isabella years ago, and we were catching up, and she had a business proposition for me. I’d initially turned her down, but I’d agreed to think it over last night and meet for lunch. I show the texts to support my story. I don’t use the name Lucy, but I show my passport for ID, and Lucille is there as my middle name, which is good enough. I’m not hiding anything. Well, not hiding much, at least.

  We’re going through my statement again when Kotnik’s partner calls her upstairs. She lifts a finger for me to wait.

  As she leaves, I exhale. I’ve played it cool, even if my stomach hasn’t stopped twisting the entire time.

  The moment I saw Isabella on the floor, I should have summoned help. When the hotel staff arrived, I lost that chance.

  No, I had that chance stolen from me. Intentionally. Whoever sent those texts was waiting for me, and I helpfully signaled my arrival by texting Isabella that I was coming in. Her killer gave me just enough time to be discovered with the body.

  When I escaped, I should have just kept going, raced back to my hotel and . . .

  And what? Pretended I never left it? This is a murder. They’ll check Isabella’s texts. For all I know, cameras caught me coming into the hotel, too.

  You should have run. Just run.

  No, that’s the worst thing I could do.

  What if they discover I’ve already lied? That I did come inside and find the body?

  Someone set you up, Lucy.

  You’re being framed.

  You need to get out of here.

  They’ll find out who you are, and that will change everything. You know it will.

  But I didn’t kill Isabella.

  You didn’t sleep with Colt, either.

  A young woman’s voice sounds in the foyer. Someone’s trying to block her entrance, and she’s blasting them.

  I know that voice.

  Do I? No, when I strain, it doesn’t sound familiar.

  I can’t hear what she’s saying, just a brief and angry interchange before she marches in and our eyes meet and . . .

  I’m looking at Tiana Morales-Gordon.

  It doesn’t matter that I haven’t seen her since she was ten years old. There is not a single heartbeat where I wonder whether I’m mistaken.

  God, how much she looks like her mother.

  That’s my first thought, but then I realize it’s not entirely true. Tiana is a taller version of Isabella, her dark curls cut shoulder length, her blue eyes flashing.

  When Tiana sees me, there is not a moment’s hesitation for her, either. Her mouth tightens, and those blue eyes blast pure hate. Then she pivots and marches upstairs, and even as her heels click toward the bedroom, she’s already snapping, “What the hell is she doing here?”

  There’s a moment of confusion, and Tiana has to identify herself and be shooed out of the bedroom, which makes her forget about me as she argues that this is her mother, and she’s not leaving.

  A temporary reprieve.

  Very temporary.

  She will tell them exactly who I am, and I will leave this suite in handcuffs.

  Stop that. You’re overreacting.

  Am I?

  I need to get out of here. Not flee. Just get out and talk to someone. My mother. Nylah. Marco. Someone I can entrust with my story in case I am arrested. Someone who will tell me what I should do.

  Upstairs, the police are still trying to keep Tiana from her mother, which is going as well as one might expect. Down here, the officer at the door is busy casting anxious glances up there, as if wondering how much trouble he’ll catch for allowing Tiana inside.

  I walk over and say, “I should probably go.”

  The officer cuts me a quick glance.

  “Detective Kotnik got my statement,” I continue. “I was just waiting to let her know I’ll be at my hotel if she has questions, but there’s obviously an issue up there, and she’s going to be a while.”

  He nods absently, his attention slingshotting back to the argument.

  “She has my contact information,” I say.

  Another nod. And with that, I’m free. Kotnik does have my contact information, and if that doesn’t include my hotel name, well, she can remedy that oversight with a bit of digging. It’ll give me the time I need to come up with a plan.

  I pause at the door, listening to Tiana above. Then I’m gone.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Isabella is dead, and I don’t know how to process that, so I focus on taking action instead. Once again Isabella’s phone is nestled in my pocket, and as soon as I reach the alley, I flip out the SIM card, snap it in two and stick that into my pocket. On the next street, I drop the broken SIM into a sewer grate. I know far too much about covering my tracks.

  This isn’t the same, though. I only discard the SIM so the phone can’t be traced to me. I should just drop the whole thing down the sewer. I don’t because my gut says I need to see who spoke to her last night.

  Who do you think you are? Miss Marple?

  No, but if the situation dives south, it’ll help to know what else was going on in Isabella’s life. It’ll make me feel more in control, which I need right now.

  I want to handle this on my own, quickly and efficiently clearing my name before anyone knows I’m connected to Isabella’s murder. Is that even possible? I shiver just thinking about it.

  It’s happening again.

  I’m going to be in the papers again.

  My life will be ruined again.

  The last snaps me out of it. My life ruined? What about Isabella, dead on a bathroom floor?

  I can handle this. First, I need to notify my mother, who will understand the significance the moment she hears that Isabella is dead. When I call, I only intend to warn her. Instead, the sound of her voice unleashes all the panic and fear and grief and shock, and I have to veer into a building alcove before I break down sobbing in the street.

  I don’t tell my mother that I found Isabella’s body. I can’t tell her anything that could make her an accomplice.

  Accomplice? You didn’t kill anyone.

  An accomplice to my lie. To what I’m sure is a criminal offense.

  The full reality of that hits me.

  I have interfered with a murder investigation. I have committed a crime.

  Whatever I’ve done, I won’t compound it by confessing to my mother. Nor do I lie. I just say that Isabella summoned me to breakfast, and now she’s dead, and it wasn’t Isabella who sent those messages. Someone’s setting me up.

  As I finish, I head back to the road, my eyes dry again.

  “So now I’m heading to my hotel,” I say. “I�
�m not certain the detective dismissed me. I just needed to get out of there and clear my head. I’ll wait for them at my hotel.”

  “You can’t speak to the police again without a lawyer.”

  “I’m a witness, not a suspect.”

  “You’re being set up, Lucy. You need a lawyer. Now.”

  Her voice is firm, and let’s be honest, despite my objections, I am worried. I’m scared, too. Every time I say I did nothing wrong, a voice whispers that it didn’t matter before. This isn’t the same thing—I was tried in the court of public opinion last time, and that bitch is stone-cold—but that voice still whispers.

  I may be innocent, but I am not naive. I will never be naive again.

  “I’m going to my hotel,” I say. “I’ll make some calls and find a lawyer.”

  “Thank you.”

  * * *

  I walk past the desk clerk and make a point of saying hi. I met him yesterday—he’s a student from the Congo, and we’d chatted about coming to the “big city” for school as I’d done so many years ago. Now I must force myself to exchange pleasantries, as if I haven’t just found the body of someone I cared about. Then I continue on to my room. I have not snuck in. I have not attempted to avoid security cameras.

  I need to call Marco. I must warn him before my name hits the news in any way. I open my suite door and walk in, phone in hand, ready to call—

  Someone has been in my room.

  At first, I only stand there, clutching my keycard as if I’ve entered the wrong room. For a moment, I actually wonder whether I have.

  It hasn’t been ripped apart, as one sees in the movies. The opposite, actually. The sheets are pulled up, the pillows in place, the drawers all closed tight.

  I’m not a messy person. I can’t be, with my tiny Rome apartment. But as I tore out this morning, worried about Jamison, I’d glanced back at the room, shuddered and hung out the Privacy Please sign so the maid service wouldn’t see the mess.

  I exhale. Okay, there’s my answer. Maid service. The sign must have fallen off, and someone came in to clean.

  Except the room hasn’t been cleaned. The sheets are pulled up, but the bed is not made. There’s trash in the basket and a dirty mug on the night stand.

  I check the door. The Privacy Please sign still hangs from the knob. I glance up at my room number, but that’s silly. My keycard wouldn’t work in the wrong door. Also, I can see my belongings scattered about the room.

  Maybe the maid service came in and then noticed the sign and stopped.

  Does that make any sense?

  It doesn’t, and I know the answer, as much as I hate to admit it.

  Someone broke in.

  It wasn’t a random thief, either. Isabella’s killer knew I wasn’t in my suite. They came in and planted something. Planted evidence to frame me.

  I hesitate, my brain insisting I’m mistaken, paranoid.

  Someone’s framing me for murder. How the hell can I not be paranoid?

  But I’m overthinking this. Turning a casual redirection ploy into a full-fledged frame-up. Based on those texts alone, I would only be questioned. It would temporarily divert the investigation, setting both the police and the media on a juicy target. A serious frame-up requires a lot more than summoning me to the crime scene. It needs . . .

  I look at the room.

  Evidence. Planted evidence.

  I lunge forward and start searching. Pull back the sheets, looking for . . . What? Bloodstains, as if I’d crawled in covered in blood?

  Clothing. They could put blood on my clothing.

  I grab yesterday’s clothes from a chair, where they lie crumpled. As I’m turning from the window, I catch a glimpse of a police car. My breath stops, but again, I tell myself I’m being silly. It’s a police car in New York, and it’s not coming . . .

  The car turns toward the hotel. I walk to the window and look down to see it pull into the loading zone. Two officers get out and head for the front door.

  They’re responding to an unrelated call. Maybe an early-morning disturbance. Just because you can afford five hundred bucks a night doesn’t mean you won’t smack your wife around.

  I didn’t tell the police where I was staying. Sure, they could get that information from Isabella’s assistant, Bess, but it’d be easier to just call me and ask.

  Hey, Ms. Callahan? You weren’t supposed to leave. I’m sending a car to pick you up. We have a few more questions.

  Even if they are here for me, it’s just more questions.

  Then why is it uniformed officers instead of detectives?

  Well, that’s proof they aren’t here for me, isn’t it?

  As my brain argues, my body takes action without me realizing it, and I am startled to see myself stuffing the dirty clothing into my smaller carry-on bag.

  Hiding potential evidence? No, not really. Not entirely, anyway.

  My body continues taking action. More clothing into the bag. My laptop. My toiletry case.

  What the hell do you think you’re doing, Lucy?

  What I must do. Being prepared.

  You’re not running. No matter what this is, you cannot run.

  I don’t answer the voice. My pounding heart won’t let me. I methodically pack my smaller bag, and then take one last look around . . .

  Something’s wrong.

  Yes, you’re fleeing police who almost certainly aren’t even here for you.

  No, not that. Something . . .

  I spot the charge cables plugged into the wall, and my gut says that isn’t it, but I do need those. I grab them, stuff them into the bag and stride out the door.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I hurry down the stairs, each jarring step thumping a rebuke through me.

  You’re being silly.

  You’re being paranoid.

  Isabella is dead. Murdered. Someone is hell-bent on framing me, and maybe the average person would trust that the truth will protect them, but I know better. It doesn’t matter whether I’m guilty or innocent. The moment my name reappears in the papers, I will never go back to my peaceful life in Rome.

  That thought sets my heart tripping so hard I can barely draw breath, and I allow the judgmental voice to return, telling me I’m overreacting. I want it to be correct. I would happily make a fool of myself if it meant I never had to go through the hell of another public scandal.

  I walk slowly down the hall. By the time I near the lobby, I can hear the officers at the front desk.

  “Do you have a room number?” the clerk is asking.

  “No,” one of the officers says. “That’s why we’re here talking to you.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot provide that information.”

  “Do you see this badge, kid?”

  The “kid”—the Congolese college student—clips each word as he says, “I still cannot provide that information. If you would like me to ring Ms. Callahan, I can do so.”

  Ms. Callahan.

  I back up two steps, where I can hear them but not be spotted.

  “I don’t want you to ring her,” the officer says. “We’re here to arrest her.”

  Wait. Did he just say . . . ?

  No, it’s too soon. I’ve misheard. I must have.

  “Oh,” the desk clerk says. “That’s a very different situation.”

  “Good. So her room number?”

  “As soon as I see the warrant. I’ll need to photocopy it for my duty manager.”

  “Now you’re just jerking us around, kid. Give me her room—”

  “I am not ‘jerking you around,’ officer. I take your request as seriously as I take our guests’ privacy. I need to assure my manager that I had a reason to provide Ms. Callahan’s room number. A photocopy of the warrant will suffice.”

  “You know what will suffice—” the officer begins.

  His partner cuts in with, “The warrant is on its way, Joseph. That’s your name, right?”

  “As it says on my tag, sir.”

  “Well,
Joseph, we appreciate you protecting your guests, but Ms. Callahan is visiting from Italy, which means she’s a flight risk. She fled a crime scene.”

  Fled?

  Hell, no. I talked to that officer at the door. I provided my contact information.

  The officer continues, “We’ll have the warrant within the hour, and you’ll get your photocopy then. Right now, we need Ms. Callahan.”

  “You can’t arrest her without a warrant, officers, so I’m not certain I understand the rush. I saw her go to her room fifteen minutes ago. Our elevator and stairwell exit are both right there. She can’t leave without you knowing it. We’ll wait for that warrant and do this properly.”

  The officers argue, but I’m out the side door before I hear the rest. As I stride from the hotel, I call Mom and tell her what just happened.

  “They can’t possibly have enough evidence for a warrant,” I say.

  “They don’t need it. This is a high-profile case, and they want a quick arrest. You’re their scapegoat.”

  “No, Mom. Even if they know who I am, it’s a huge leap from that to a warrant. A judge won’t give them one without evidence.”

  Mom says something, but I don’t hear her over the voice in my head, whispering that they do have evidence if they know I was in Isabella’s room this morning. My fingerprints are there.

  And what did they plant in my suite?

  Oh, shit. My room. I turn back toward the hotel. I shouldn’t have fled. I should have gone back up and searched and found what the intruder planted, gotten rid of it and then waited for the police to bring their warrant.

  Gotten rid of the evidence how? Hidden it in the hotel? What they planted is almost certainly forensic evidence on my clothing, which I have in this bag.

  Still, whatever was planted, it doesn’t explain the warrant. There must be more evidence at the scene. Unless they’re bluffing about the warrant . . .

  Enough of this nonsense. I’m not a fugitive. I’m not going to become one. I will dispose of my clothing and temporarily hide my backpack. Grab a coffee and head back into the hotel and “Oh, hello, officers. Did you want to speak to me?”