Every Step She Takes

by K. L. Armstrong

  “Hello, Lucy,” he says. “You aren’t very good at this fugitive nonsense, are you? Grabbed in an alley, and what do you decide is your next move? Sleep in an empty park.” He chuckles. “Not exactly a criminal mastermind. Lucky for me.”

  “Who are you?” I say, my voice rising, shrill and shaky. “What do you want?”

  He laughs at the movie-cliché dialogue and relaxes his grip just a little, reassured that I really am an idiot. It’s the opening I want, and I yank from his grip, spinning around to slam him with my backpack as I knee him between the legs. He staggers, and I run.

  If you’d asked me whether I ran as fast as I could earlier today, I’d have said obviously I did. I did not. My attacker had been thwarted by the delivery driver, giving me the time I needed to get to a public place.

  I’m still in a public place…only this one is completely empty, and there’s nothing to slow down my attacker. I run, skidding and sliding at first, the backpack thumping against my side. Then I manage to sling it over my shoulder as I find my footing.

  The man comes after me. He is not on the ground, writhing in agony after that knee between the legs. He’s frothing-at-the-mouth furious, screaming epithets, his average-guy mask shredded.

  I start down the footpath and then veer with a mental reminder that, when running for one’s life, one does not need to stick to the paths. I run, blinking against the darkness until I spot the Delacorte Theater ahead. I race toward it and swing toward the first building I see.

  As soon as I slow, I hear his pounding footfalls, and I plaster myself to the wall and squeeze my eyes shut to listen.

  Run past me. Just run past me.

  There’s a chance he will. There’s also a chance that he’ll look over his shoulder as he passes, and he’ll spot me. I will be ready for that. I’ll run if I have time. I’ll fight if I do not.

  I keep my eyes shut, tracking his progress. When I pick up a second set of footfalls, my eyes fly open.

  Is that the actual park police? There’s no way I could be that lucky. I’m hearing an echo. I must be.

  Unless my attacker isn’t alone.

  Dear God, what if he has a partner?

  I brace myself. He’s drawing closer. He’s still running full out, not slowing as he nears the building. He’s going to run past. Please, let him run past.

  A yelp rings out. A high-pitched squeal of surprise. Then “What the—?”

  The sound of a fist striking. A thump, too hard to be someone falling. Someone being thrown to the hard earth.

  Another smack. An animal yowl of pain.

  Run!

  What’s going on? What just happened?

  Does it matter? Run.

  I want to look. I so badly want to peek out and see what’s going on, but the audio will have to be enough. Someone chased my pursuer. Either the park police or a stranger who saw him coming after me. Now there’s a fight, and I have a chance to escape.

  I creep along the theater. It seems to take forever, but finally, I see the Great Lawn ahead. I race toward it as the sounds of the fight fade behind me.

  TWENTY-NINE

  When I exit Central Park, I check the time. Three a.m. My stomach twists. This might be the city that doesn’t sleep, but it does hit a point on weekday nights where the only people out are…not people I want to meet. I feel as exposed as a lone antelope at the watering hole.

  I duck into an all-night diner, buy pie and coffee, and sit in a corner booth. If the server or the cook recognizes me and calls the police, I’m done. I won’t flee. I won’t fight. I’m casting my die here. Fate will have her way, and I’ll think, At least it’s not as bad as what could have happened tonight.

  What did happen tonight? I’m still unpacking that. I made a mistake this afternoon when I told myself that the alley attack was a crime of opportunity. Ten years ago, I’d have berated myself for that as much as I did for the knife attack. How could I be so stupid?

  I’ll be gentler with myself tonight. Kinder and more understanding. I did not want to seriously entertain the possibility that this afternoon’s attack was targeted because the online vitriol has ignited old memories. Memories of my self-worth being ground into dust. Memories of being stomped into ignominy even as my picture graced a thousand newspapers. Who did I think I was? Just some girl, some nanny, some homely nobody. Attacked in an alley by a crazed fan? Don’t be silly. That doesn’t happen. Do I really crave attention that badly? Do I really think anyone cares enough to do that?

  Paranoid. How often have I chastised myself with that word? I’m being silly, being paranoid. It felt like common sense, but the root of it was that insidious whisper from the past, telling me I was nothing, wasn’t even pretty enough to snare Colt Gordon for a night—God, did you see her? How drunk and horny was he?

  I didn’t want to think I’d be targeted because it made me feel as if I was thinking too highly of myself. Thinking I was important enough to be attacked.

  Do you have any idea how much you’re worth right now?

  That’s laughable, of course. This isn’t about me. It’s about me as a potential fall guy for Isabella’s murder, and in that, hell yes, I’m valuable. Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to frame me. Am I questioning the possibility they’d hire someone to find me?

  I’m almost certainly not dealing with a crazed fan here. Whoever killed Isabella has money, and that means they could hire someone to do the police’s work. Because, let’s face it, the cops aren’t exactly putting up roadblocks to find me. I’m not public enemy number one. They’ll just track my banking cards, and block my passport and remind the public to call if they see me.

  That isn’t enough for the killer.

  The guy in the park was the same one who attacked me in the alley. Yes, I’d surprised him there as he’d been following me, but he’d acted swiftly as he had tonight. That arm hold told me he knew what he was doing. He wasn’t some random guy who made it his mission to find me in hopes of a reward.

  And he has found me. Twice now.

  Or is it three times? I keep thinking of that first night, the man I’d briefly seen step from an alley and then sink back into the shadows when I spotted him.

  He hasn’t “found” me three times. He’s never lost me. He’s been tracking me from the start, waiting for the right moment to…

  To what? Turn me in to the police? That only takes a phone call.

  The killer is framing me for Isabella’s murder. Yet, being innocent, I would fight like hell.

  What if I never get to trial? What if I die in an alley? In Central Park? Die with further evidence planted on my corpse?

  Again, I recoil from the thought. No one’s going to kill me. I’m not worth that.

  If I want to succumb to that voice whispering about my worth, then perhaps I should listen to it here. My lack of importance, my lack of roots, my lack of ties, all that makes me easy to kill. I’m single, childless, living abroad with only a schoolteacher mom to care whether I die. It would be easy to get rid of me.

  Is that the plan?

  I honestly don’t know.

  There’s also the possibility that my stalker is Isabella’s killer. That it could even be her mystery lover. I balk at that—it doesn’t fit the man from those texts. But I already consider him a potential suspect. Why couldn’t he be my stalker, too?

  I feel eighteen again, lost and confused and alone. So damned alone.

  I could have died tonight.

  That’s what it comes down to. I could have died.

  I sit and I stare, my coffee and pie untouched. When the sixty-something server comes by with her pot of coffee, she sees I don’t need it and murmurs, “Everything okay, hon?” in a soft Southern accent, and I start to cry. I’m mortified, of course, wiping tears and stammering apologies, but she brushes them off and slides in across from me and says, “You need me to
call anyone?” When I don’t answer, she leans over and lowers her voice. “A friend?” She pauses. “The police?”

  I shake my head.

  “You sure, hon?”

  I nod. “I just…I had a close call. I did something stupid and had a close call.”

  “Everyone’s entitled to do stupid things, especially when they’re young.” Her dark eyes meet mine. “No one deserves a ‘close call’ for doing them.”

  Tears spill, and I wipe them away and thank her.

  “You sure you don’t want me to phone someone?”

  I shake my head. “I just need a place to sit. I know I’m taking up a table.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a twenty. “I can pay for more food, and you can give it to someone who needs it.”

  Her plump hand covers mine. “You keep your money. We’re empty tonight, and I don’t mind not being the only person in here. Hal in the back is too deaf to come running when there’s trouble. Or that’s his excuse, lazy old fart.”

  As she rises, she takes my pie. “This apple isn’t fit for a dog. It comes straight from the freezer. You want the sweet potato pie. I make it myself. Only place in New York you can get it this time of year.”

  She brings me a slice, and I take a bite and pronounce it perfect, as if I am a connoisseur of the dessert. She tells me to wave if I want more, and otherwise, she’ll leave me be.

  Before she walks away, I make note of her name tag. Phyllis. When all this is over, I’m sending her the biggest gift basket I can find. I’m sure that, for Phyllis, this is just another shift, and I’m just another 3 a.m. customer needing a place to be for a few hours. For me, though, it’s an unforgettable act of kindness when I needed it most. I won’t forget that.

  I eat my pie, and sip my coffee and read the paper. It contains nothing on me or Isabella’s death. That would have come yesterday, and with no updates, they don’t mention it. I’m fine with that.

  It’s barely five when PCTracy pings me.

  PCTracy: Checking in. How’d last night go?

  I want to say fine, but I need him to know it was not fine. I need him to have at least some inkling of what I’m facing if he’s going to help me decide my next move.

  PCTracy: You there?

  LlamaGirl: I had a problem.

  PCTracy: Are you okay?

  LlamaGirl: I was accosted.

  Yes, it’s an odd word to use, but I’m not ready to share my theory.

  Theory? You were attacked twice by the same man. That’s a fact.

  Doubt still whispers. Not my doubt, but the doubts of those officers when I was stabbed. The doubts of old friends who’d listened to my fears and wondered whether I might be exaggerating a wee bit. Getting paranoid.

  PCTracy: What? Where?

  LlamaGirl: In a park. It’s okay. I’m fine.

  PCTracy: That is NOT okay. I’m the one who suggested you stay out all night.

  LlamaGirl: I’m an adult. It was still my choice.

  PCTracy: Are you hurt? Are you safe?

  I answer more questions, but they’re all about me and my safety. He doesn’t ask for details on the accosting, which seems strange. I’ve left the situation open for everything from attempted sexual assault to a homeless person yelling at me for taking her spot. Yet he only pushes to be sure I’m safe. He presumes that I escaped and that I’m unharmed, but doesn’t ask either. It’s almost as if…

  It’s almost as if he knows what happened.

  LlamaGirl: I do need to go back, though. I left my backpack.

  There’s a pause. A long one.

  PCTracy: You dropped it?

  LlamaGirl: No, I left it where I was sleeping.

  That’s the obvious answer. Yet he presumes I took it. As if he knows I took it.

  PCTracy: Are you sure?

  LlamaGirl: Of course, I’m sure. How wouldn’t I be?

  No answer.

  LlamaGirl: You seem very convinced I didn’t leave my backpack behind.

  PCTracy: Sorry. I’m freaking out. I told you it’d be safe to spend the night out. You could have been assaulted, and it would have been my fault.

  PCTracy: I was an idiot, and I’m furious with myself. I was thinking that I could do it, and you’re obviously resourceful and capable, so you could, too. I never stopped to consider the extra danger you’d face.

  LlamaGirl: As a woman.

  PCTracy: Right.

  LlamaGirl: I never told you what happened to me. I didn’t say it was a guy. I didn’t say what he wanted. I didn’t say anything except that I was accosted in the park.

  Pause. Pause.

  PCTracy: I made a presumption, and I shouldn’t have. We need to get you a safe place to stay. A hotel room. Do you trust me to handle that?

  I don’t trust you to do anything right now.

  LlamaGirl: You were there. When I was attacked.

  PCTracy: You think I attacked you?

  LlamaGirl: No, I think you came to my rescue. A guy woke me up. I got away. I’d escaped, and I was hiding, hoping he’d run past, when someone took him down. Beat the crap out of him, it sounded like.

  PCTracy: Well, good. He deserved it, and I’d gladly have administered the beating, but I’ve been in my hotel room all night.

  LlamaGirl: And if we met for breakfast, you wouldn’t have a mark on you?

  No answer.

  LlamaGirl: It was you. I know it was. You’re asking me to trust you. Can I? Really?

  At least thirty seconds tick past.

  PCTracy: It was me.

  PCTracy: I wouldn’t have told you it was safe to sleep out of doors unless I could watch over you.

  PCTracy: I wasn’t LITERALLY watching you sleep. I was just close by. I heard the guy coming. He looked like a cop. I withdrew to monitor the situation. The problem was that I couldn’t hear what he was saying to you. It looked like a police interaction…until he grabbed you.

  PCTracy: I was sneaking up when you escaped. I stayed back, hoping you’d get away on your own. I knew you were hiding behind the theater after you ran, so I took him down before he reached you.

  PCTracy: I’m sorry. I should have insisted you get a hotel room, one way or another. I thought I had it under control, and I did not.

  LlamaGirl: You’re tracking me. You know where I am.

  PCTracy: It’s not like that.

  LlamaGirl: No? Where am I? Right now.

  Another thirty seconds. Then he names the diner.

  LlamaGirl: You bastard.

  PCTracy: Yes, I know where you are, but the only time I used that information was last night.

  PCTracy: Okay, I used it this morning, too, but just to be sure you were safe. I’m miles away. I swear it. I have never been within a thousand feet of you before the library yesterday.

  LlamaGirl: The library?

  PCTracy: It’s the IP address. If you’re on Wi-Fi, I know how to get the IP address from the messaging app we’re using. I can trace that to the location. I haven’t before yesterday, though. And I won’t do it again. If you’re worried, use cell phone data. I can’t track that.

&
nbsp; LlamaGirl: You bastard.

  PCTracy: It was a stupid thing to do. A violation of your trust. I understand that now.

  LlamaGirl: And you didn’t before?

  PCTracy: Honestly, no. Like I said, I wouldn’t have suggested you sleep outside if I couldn’t be there. From my perspective, I’m guarding a client, which is part of my job. However, from your point of view, I’m a stranger tracking your movements and watching over you as you sleep. That’s creepy as hell.

  PCTracy: I had nothing but good intentions. But you don’t know that. So I screwed up.

  LlamaGirl: You did. Goodbye.

  PCTracy: Wait! Tell me what I can do to make this right.

  LlamaGirl: Nothing. You sent me to this app so we could chat, knowing it also meant you could track me. I’m deleting it now.

  PCTracy: Please don’t do that, L. Stick to data. I will make no attempt to track you in any way.

  LlamaGirl: I don’t trust you.

  PCTracy: Colt was definitely not at home the night of the murder. He went to a rehearsal and then flew out on a friend’s private jet just before 3 p.m. Pacific time, 6 Eastern. I don’t have the flight plan yet, but I’m working on it. A private JET, though, suggests he wasn’t zipping up to San Francisco for the evening. If the destination was New York, he’d have arrived around 11 p.m.

  PCTracy: I also think you should see this.

  He sends me a link.

  PCTracy: Watch the video. You might be able to reach out to her. We can discuss that.

  LlamaGirl: I need some time.

  PCTracy: Understood. Just be careful. Please.

  THIRTY

  I have breakfast in the diner. I feel safe here, and that might be an illusion—by six, people are streaming in, and while I’m tucked into the corner of my booth, they could still see me if they walked past. Yet I’m still at the same point as when I walked in here. Roll the die. Accept my fate. I suppose Mom would say that I’m putting my faith in God, but God or Fate, it feels like the same thing. That moment when you look the cosmos square in the eye and say, “Do with me what you will.”