Every Step She Takes

by Kelley Armstrong

  She grins, a hyena scenting blood. I snap the browser window shut.

  PCTracy wanted me to see that video. He sees a potential ally within the family—or at least a sympathetic ear. The fact that he got that out of what I just saw only proves how desperate we both are.

  Well, she didn’t say you definitely killed her mother. That’s a start, right?

  I shake my head. There’s no feud here.

  My father needs a full-time minder.

  Not “my father needs to shut his damn mouth.” This isn’t anger; it’s exasperation. I remember Colt complaining to Isabella about Karla constantly sending him packaged soundbites and then chastising him for speaking his mind instead.

  I’m honest. People like that. Karla just doesn’t understand.

  Karla understood just fine. She understood that Colt was indeed beloved for his honesty . . . in the same way you can’t help loving a child who says whatever he thinks. It’s endearing at five. At forty, though? Let’s just say Karla spent a lot of time that summer cleaning up Colt’s verbal vomit. She’d still been doing damage control after an impromptu interview at a spring awards show when he’d said he was happy he lost a role to a younger actor because the writing was shit and he’d have needed Isabella to rewrite the script.

  When Colt claims to believe I killed Isabella, I’m not as hurt as I should be. That’s just Colt looking to blame me before anyone suspects him. Just because Tiana recognizes that doesn’t mean she’s on my side.

  I leave the money for breakfast on the table along with a twenty-dollar tip. I’m barely out the door when Phyllis comes after me with “Oh, no, you don’t,” and presses the extra bill into my hand.

  “You need that more than I do,” she says.

  I flush and wonder how rough I look after a night outside. “No, really. I’m fine. I—”

  “You’re going to need it if you keep running, hon. And if you want my advice, you need to keep running. Just be safer about it.”

  I hope my face doesn’t show my reaction. She only means that I seem to be living on the streets, and I’m not dressed like someone who has been doing it for long.

  “Thank you,” I say. “But I wanted to show my appreciation—”

  “Show it later, when you’re out of this mess. Right now, you need every penny you’ve got if you’re going to keep your ass out of jail, Miss Lucy.”

  I go still, so still I forget to breathe.

  “Oh, I know who you are. Took me a while, but I figured it out. You need to be a lot more careful, hon. I read the news. Read it all those years ago, too, and I was spitting mad at what they did to you. Just a child, you were, and with a man like that?” She whistles. “I’d have been tempted myself, and I was no child. Men like him always take advantage of pretty girls. They think they’ve earned them, as if you’re a company bonus.”

  “I didn’t kill—”

  She shushes me and casts a quick look around. “I didn’t figure you did. Not on purpose, anyway. Now my Nathaniel, he’s always rolling his eyes at my conspiracy theories, but this has conspiracy painted all over it. You’re the perfect scapegoat, and they’re scapegoating you good. Money and power. It comes down to that. It always does.”

  She shakes her head. “I bet that husband of hers did it, and someone’s covering it up for him. I used to like his movies, but after what happened to you, I never watched another one. He should have been run out of Hollywood, but instead, he got even more famous. Like seducing a teenage girl proved he still had it.”

  She eases back. “You don’t need me saying any of that, not when you just want to get out of here in case I’m stalling you after I called the police.” She pats my arm. “You go on then. Run, and keep running until this gets sorted out.”

  I pocket the twenty. “Can I at least give you a hug?”

  She chuckles. “I’ll take that,” she says and embraces me.

  * * *

  I blame Phyllis for my next move. I’m sure she wouldn’t appreciate that, but after three days of hell, she is a blazing beacon of kindness and hope, as perfect as if I conjured her from wisps of daydream. A complete stranger who understood what happened to me fourteen years ago and who understands what’s happening now. Someone to pat my back and tell me everything will be okay—to tell me I’m okay.

  I leave that encounter flying high and promising I truly will repay her. And, my hope and faith in humanity bolstered, I do exactly what I’d decided, mere moments before, not to do.

  I call Tiana.

  Well, I text her . . . after researching a way to do that online instead of text messaging.

  Me: Tiana? It’s Lucy.

  She answers four minutes later with a two-word profanity. I expect no less.

  Me: Give me five minutes. Please.

  Tiana: Where did you get this number? I’ll have you traced. You know that, right?

  Me: Go ahead. But we need to talk.

  Tiana: Oh, sure, let’s do that. We’ll chat. I’ll bare my soul and call Lucy Callahan a monstrous bitch and wail and ask how she could have done that to me. Or should I vow vengeance instead? Which will play better online?

  I read that twice, stumbling on her use of the third person for me. Then it clicks.

  Me: You don’t think it’s me.

  Tiana: Of course it’s you, Lucy. Why would anyone contact me from an unknown number pretending to be Lucy Callahan? That’s just silly.

  Tiana: I don’t know who you are, but this is harassment.

  Me: 1984.

  No response.

  Me: That’s the book you were reading when I met you. You were sitting by the pool reading 1984 while Jamie swam. He wouldn’t take his swim shirt from your mom, so I jumped in, fully clothed, and gave it to him.

  Silence. Dead silence. She’s disconnected. I’m sure of it. Disconnected and blocked this number. Then,

  Tiana: You took my mother’s phone. That’s where you got my number.

  Me: I didn’t kill her. I swear it.

  Tiana: And you know what, Genevieve? I don’t actually care. My mother is dead. Yes, she was murdered, but right now, all I care about is the part where she’s DEAD.

  Me: I’m sorry.

  I get that two-word profanity again.

  Me: I deserve that. And you’re right. I shouldn’t be contacting you. I won’t reach out again. If you want to talk to me—-if you want to know what happened that night—-you can e-mail me.

  I give my new e-mail address. She doesn’t answer. I stare at the phone for twenty minutes. Then I pocket it and move on.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I need to do something new with my hair. I spend twenty minutes in a family restroom with a bottle of shampoo, removing the temporary dye. I feel bad taking up space that someone with a baby may need, but it’s still early, and I didn’t see anyone outside with a child. I manage to wash about half the dye out, leaving my hair auburn. Then I stare in the mirror.

  Does that help?

  Not really.

  I should cut it, but I’m not sure that would help, either. It’s the obvious direction to go—like a fugitive shaving off his beard. What I really need is a wig. I know how to wear them from my filmmaking camp days. The problem is getting one without someone taking a closer look and realizing why I’m wig shopping.

  I make another risky decision. I suppose my interaction with Tiana should have quashed that urge, but actually, she responded exactly as I expected. Honest and mature. She did not, however, rail at me, or accuse me or even threaten to report our chat to the police. So I take another chance. I open the messaging app and ping PCTracy.

  LlamaGirl: I need a wig.

  A reply comes in less than sixty seconds.

  PCTracy: Absolutely. That’s a good idea. I’m presuming you’d like me to buy it, which is also wise.

  Before I can reply, he continues,

  PCTracy: It should be longer than your hair is now. Significantly longer. Dark blond. Too light won’t suit you. A long dark blond wig.
>
  LlamaGirl: Given this some thought, have you?

  PCTracy: I’ve been coming up with a list of things we can do better.

  LlamaGirl: Like not tracking me without my permission?

  It’s a low blow, but I have to say it. Then I add.

  LlamaGirl: And don’t apologize again. I just want to move forward with an understanding that you will not track me.

  PCTracy: Understood and agreed. I’ll put together a bag for you—clothing, wig and a hotel keycard.

  PCTracy: Is there any chance I can give it to you in person?

  LlamaGirl: No. After last night, I need more time.

  He doesn’t push, just provides instructions for picking up the bag. He’s going to store it at a left-luggage facility and leave the claim tag elsewhere.

  It would, of course, have just been easier to meet in person. After last night, though, I really am not ready. I’m skittish, and I need space to reevaluate. Turning myself in is seeming more and more like the right move. The smart move. But I keep thinking of that bloody towel and the other evidence the police claim to have. I also think of the progress PCTracy is making. If it’s possible to get a little downtime in a safe hotel, then I need that. Sleep. Rest. Think. Make clear-headed decisions.

  * * *

  PCTracy promised to have the bag in place by one. I wait until two to retrieve the claim ticket from a restroom. That goes off without a hitch. Same with getting the bag from the left-luggage spot—a souvenir shop in Times Square.

  I resist the urge to peek inside the roller bag until I’m far enough from the pickup point. When I do, I ping PCTracy.

  LlamaGirl: A stuffed dog?

  PCTracy: It’s part of the costume.

  LlamaGirl: Uh-huh . . .

  PCTracy: You’re “woman who travels with small dog.” There’s a carrier for the dog. All they’ll see through it is the white fur. I assembled the rest of the costume to fit the persona.

  LlamaGirl: Still not getting the dog part . . .

  PCTracy: It’s the accessory equivalent of a facial scar or a bad tattoo. All people will notice is your dog. All people will remember is the dog. It also gives you an excuse to keep your head down. Talk to the dog. Coo at it.

  LlamaGirl: You’re having way too much fun with this.

  PCTracy: You’ll make a great “woman with small dog.”

  LlamaGirl: I don’t think that’s a compliment.

  PCTracy: LOL. It’s not an insult, either. Now, when you’re ready, I got early check-in for your room. I’m going to strongly suggest that once you’re in, you stay in. Get some rest. Let me do the legwork, and you stick to online research.

  * * *

  Looking at my reflection in the restroom mirror, I snort with laughter. When I picture “woman with small dog,” I imagine a very chic, well-dressed woman of a certain age, striding through New York with a fluffy dog’s head sticking out of her purse.

  Instead, I’m wearing a long dark-blond wig with yoga pants and a barely waist-length lightweight angora sweater. For shoes, I get Keds with no socks. I also have new sunglasses and a new purse. Both are emblazoned with high-fashion names though I’m guessing they’re street-vendor knockoffs.

  I seriously consider changing back to my other clothes, but right now, I’m about as far as I can get from the Lucy Callahan in that hotel photo. If there’s any chance my attacker from last night is in the area, he’ll never recognize me in this.

  The hotel PCTracy chose is the biggest one in Times Square. Again, not what I would select, but that is the point. It’s also so big and so busy that I’m invisible. With the keycard in hand, I can head straight for the elevator bank.

  When I step into my room, I inhale the unmistakable smell of hot food.

  “Hello?” I call.

  No answer. I move inside to see that I have a full suite with a sofa and a desk. A room service cart sits in front of an armchair.

  Before I can retreat, I spot a sheet of paper taped to the small pyramid of silver trays. In block letters it says, “READ ME.”

  I ease into the room, still looking around, tensed to flee. I tug the sheet free. On the back it says, “MESSAGE ME.”

  I stare at it. Then I take out my phone and ping PCTracy.

  LlamaGirl: Is there a “Drink me” sign somewhere, too?

  PCTracy: That’s why I had you text when you were ten minutes away. So I could get out. Yes, I was in your room. I left my keycard on the desk.

  PCTracy: I wanted to make sure you got food without needing to answer the door.

  PCTracy: Suitable interference? Or still creepy?

  LlamaGirl: Suitable interference. Thank you. You didn’t need to do that. And I certainly didn’t need a suite.

  PCTracy: Free upgrade. I booked in person, and I tried to be charming in hopes of leaving a lasting impression. Apparently, I made a good one :)

  LlamaGirl: Well, thank you.

  PCTracy: Hope the food choices are okay, too. I went with relatively safe options. Eat. Rest. I’ll touch base in a couple of hours.

  I set my phone down and survey the room-service cart. There are three covered trays, plus a carafe of coffee, a small bottle of red wine, a large bottle of sparkling water and a can of Diet Coke. Under the first tray I open, there are two desserts—crème brûlée and cheesecake. The second has a salad. The third a massive burger and mountain of fries.

  PCTracy said he went with safe choices, and he did. They also happen to all be things I like. That could be coincidental . . . except for the drink choices. The wine is a Pinot Noir, which is my go-to choice if I can’t get a rustic Italian red. Diet Coke is my go-to for soda. Sparkling water over still? Yep.

  With the drinks, there’s no doubt that this is Thompson—or his investigator—and they’ve been in touch with my mother.

  When I wheel my luggage into the bedroom, I find clothing. A couple of T-shirts, a pair of sweatpants and a nightshirt, stacked under a note reading “No underwear. Sorry. I figured I was pushing creepy with the nightshirt.”

  Beside the clothing there’s a folded brown bag. Inside, I find cookies and chocolates along with more water and soda and two paperback novels, one a thriller and one historical fiction.

  Oh, yeah, he talked to my mother.

  This is all incredibly considerate. Above and beyond, really, like the perfect host contemplating what a guest might need if she’s spending the next eighteen hours locked in a hotel room. It feels like an apology for last night, and while it wasn’t necessary, I do appreciate it.

  However this goes, I’ll make sure PCTracy isn’t on the hook for expenses. And I’ll be sure to thank him when we talk in a few hours. Right now, though, I have a burger and fries waiting.

  * * *

  I eat. I drink. I nap. Then I skim the Internet for case updates, but there’s nothing new.

  Next, I check for updates on my fugitive status. As expected, my sandwich shop visit did not go unnoticed. According to a source, I’d been spotted by an eagle-eyed manager, who reported it, but the police took their sweet time showing up, and I fled in the meantime.

  There are more sightings, all in places I’ve never been, including Miami, Sydney and Toronto. One person, though, reports spotting me near Central Park last night. He didn’t contact the police, fearing “repercussions.” After all, I’m a dangerous criminal.

  That makes me laugh, and then, mood bolstered, I do something guaranteed to bring it down. I read tributes to Isabella. It’s penance, in a way, for texting Tiana earlier. She was completely right to call me on my insensitivity, and now as I read these memories of her mother, I am reminded myself that whatever personal issues I had with Isabella, I admired the hell out of her.

  Tributes are, as they say, pouring in. Some are “wife of” remembrances—A-list actors and directors who only knew Isabella through Colt. I ignore those. I want the real ones, from people who knew her. I’m skimming a fan site dedicated to Isabella when I see an embedded video compilation of her acting career, and a nam
e beneath it stops me short.

  Justice Kane.

  I smile. I cannot help it. I will always smile when a Justice Kane song comes on the radio. He is the one good memory from that night.

  Seeing his name, I’m reminded that he’d been a friend of the Gordon-Morales clan. Apparently, he’d reached out to this Isabella Morales fan site and asked whether they wanted to use one of his songs for their commemorative video.

  When I see which one he offered, I nod in satisfaction. It’s an early solo hit, and it’s perfect for Isabella. A gorgeous tribute to a strong and capable woman and, quite possibly, my personal favorite of his. I can’t help turning on the volume as I hit Play.

  As the song begins, his rich voice starts soft, quiet words of respect and admiration beautifully underlaid with aching love, a classic admired-from-afar love song and . . .

  Holy shit.

  I blink, rewind and close my eyes as Justice’s voice wafts from the tinny speaker. Then I hit Stop, grab my phone and redial the number of Isabella’s secret lover. It goes straight to the answering message.

  It’s Justice’s voice. That’s why it sounded familiar. Because I knew it from a very long time ago.

  Isabella’s secret lover is Justice Kane? That doesn’t make sense.

  I listen to the song again, a heart-wrenching love letter to a woman who just happens to fit Isabella Morales to a tee. He’d offered this song for her memorial video on a small fan-run site unlikely to attract the attention of anyone who might put two and two together. A quiet public proclamation of love.