Every Step She Takes

by K. L. Armstrong

  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 name 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.

  Justice had sent me that message of support all those years ago. And the texts from Isabella’s mystery lover very clearly suggested he supported me.

  So why am I doubting the connection? Because in my mind, Justice Kane is a boy that Isabella tried to set me up with. A young family friend she’d invited to her anniversary party for me.

  Except Justice hadn’t been a “boy.” He’d been twenty-one. He wrote this song ten years ago when he clearly wasn’t dating the woman in it. They must have gotten together later as the age difference grew less significant.

  Justice Kane and Isabella Morales.

  Holy shit.

  My phone vibrates. It’s PCTracy. I start to tell him what I’ve learned. Then I stop myself. This was Isabella’s secret. Hers and Justice’s, and neither of them deserves my betrayal.

  PCTracy: Got something for you. I’ve confirmed Colt’s destination that night. New Haven, Connecticut. He landed at 10:10 p.m., which would get him to NYC around midnight.

  LlamaGirl: Damn.

  PCTracy: I know you aren’t ready to meet in person, so I’m NOT pestering about that. But have we reached the point where I can ask for your full story? It will really help.

  LlamaGirl: You mean what happened to me fourteen years ago?

  PCTracy:
That is up to you. If it relates to this, then tell me whatever you’re comfortable with. I mean the night of Isabella’s death, though. What really happened.

  It takes a moment to realize I still haven’t shared that. Without knowing my side of the story, he’s blindfolded, feeling his way through the situation.

  LlamaGirl: It will help to understand the beach party incident because it launched everything. That’s awkward for me, though.

  PCTracy: No judgment here. To me, it’s data. You slept with a movie star when you were eighteen. That’s public record. What matters is that the affair led to you being in NYC to meet with Isabella, which led to her death.

  LlamaGirl: The public record is wrong. I didn’t have sex with Colt. I know that doesn’t matter in the larger scheme of things, but it matters to me.

  PCTracy: Did Isabella know the truth?

  LlamaGirl: I told her in a letter fourteen years ago. She never read it. So she first heard it Sunday.

  PCTracy: Then it IS significant. For now, just tell me whatever you’re comfortable with.

  I do. When I finish my story, there’s no answer for so long that I wonder whether he’s declared me delusional and signed off.

  PCTracy: So you’re saying nothing happened before that night, during which Colt Gordon got you drunk—possibly doped you—and spirited you off to a hot tub, where he planned to seduce you, whether you wanted it or not?

  LlamaGirl: I’m sorry I mentioned it. Rewind. We’ll go with “I slept with a movie star.”

  PCTracy: What?

  PCTracy: Damn it. I just reread what I wrote. Tone. That’s what we’re missing here, and why it would be better to meet. That wasn’t skepticism, L. It was outrage. You WERE assaulted in that hot tub.

  LlamaGirl: I don’t see it that way. I was an adult. I made choices. Bad ones.

  PCTracy: Okay. We’re stepping into a quagmire, one I have no right to enter. Short version is that Isabella discovered the truth of that night. Did she think Colt was at fault for what happened?

  LlamaGirl: Yes. She would agree with your interpretation. I told her I didn’t, and we agreed to disagree.

  PCTracy: And then?

  I tell him about Isabella’s plan to go public and my reaction.

  PCTracy: I hate to say this, because you liked Isabella, but it could have been a ploy to get back in the spotlight. Her career suffered because of the scandal, and I wouldn’t otherwise begrudge her the chance to get it back. Not at your expense, though.

  LlamaGirl: I don’t think she was actively planning that, but yes, it would have given her attention.

  PCTracy: It could also have been about revenge. Getting back at Colt.

  LlamaGirl: I don’t think so. She wanted to remove him from our story. But yes, Colt would have taken it personally. Everything revolves around him. It’s possible he flew in to talk her out of it. They argued. She died.

  PCTracy: Yep. So what happened after you agreed to lunch?

  I take him through the morning of Isabella’s death. I include everything, even the fact that I have her phone and why. He knew some of this already from what I’d been okay telling him. Now he gets it all.

  LlamaGirl: Taking the phone was stupid.

  PCTracy: But understandable in context.

  LlamaGirl: The police won’t see it that way.

  PCTracy: That’s not giving them enough credit. The problem is that the police aren’t actually the ones you need to worry about.

  LlamaGirl: It’s a jury, filled with people who won’t put themselves in my shoes, who will only think I made a stupid choice, and therefore it’s suspicious.

  PCTracy: We’ll deal with that. For now, are you set for food?

  LlamaGirl: LOL I am very set for food. I haven’t thanked you for that. It was incredibly considerate, and I appreciate it.

  PCTracy: I just don’t want you having any reason to leave your room tonight. You’re safe there.

  LlamaGirl: And here I will stay.

  THIRTY-TWO

  I expect that after I tell PCTracy the story, I’ll be a seething cauldron of nervous regrets. Instead, I feel only relief—the kind that relaxes me better than any sedative. I’m in bed by ten, and thankfully, I set my alarm for seven thirty, because otherwise, I’d have just keep snoozing. At eight sharp, there’s a rap on the door. PCTracy had said he’d order my breakfast and ask them to leave the cart after a knock. I wait five minutes before wheeling the cart inside.

  I’d requested coffee and a granola parfait, which does not explain the steaming covered plate beside my parfait. Two steaming plates, actually. Under one is a waffle with berry compote and melting whipped cream. Under the other is eggs Benedict with a side of bacon. And while there is coffee, there’s also cappuccino.

  I survey the personal breakfast buffet. Then I smile and dig in.

  I eat and shower and relax, and then I settle in with my phone. I pop over to my new e-mail account, expecting nothing. Instead, there is a message from Tiana.

  Lucy,

  All right. Let’s hear what you have to say. Meet me at the address below for lunch at noon.

  Tiana

  I check the address on Google. It shows what looks like a three-story walk-up. An office, not a condo.

  I message her back.

  Tiana,

  I’d rather talk. Phone or text. Your choice. Meeting in person isn’t safe.

  Lucy

  It takes ten minutes to get a response. There’s no salutation or closing on this. Just the message body.

  You have the address. You show up, or you don’t.

  I consider my options. Then I message PCTracy, just a quick “I’m awake. Can we talk?”

  He doesn’t get back to me, and as the clock ticks past eleven, I know I need to make a decision.

  I’m lounging in a hotel room, being pampered by a guy that I’m pretty sure is the lawyer who wants to represent me. If it’s not Thompson, then it’s his investigator, and the lawyer is pulling the strings.

  Tuesday night, I was attacked in Central Park by what PCTracy thinks is some random guy. The next day, I get this lovely hotel suite with early check-in and all my favorite foods. It feels like a treat.

  It’s not a treat. It’s a cage.

  I couldn’t even survive a night in Central Park without PCTracy’s intervention, and so I’ve been put in a pretty cage to rest while he investigates. I’ve provided nothing useful otherwise, just bumbling around, getting spotted by deli managers and attacked by strangers.

  That’s how he sees it, and I’m not sure he’s wrong. In our first conversation, Thompson mocked the idea of me investigating even before I suggested doing so, and that’s left me hesitant. I’ve been tracking the online chatter, reading Isabella’s texts and trying to find clues, but I haven’t actually investigated anything.

  I asked PCTracy yesterday to throw me a research bone, and he brushed me off.

  Thompson made me feel silly for even thinking I could try some serious detective work, and so I’ve been muddling about, waiting for the police to realize they’re wrong or for PCTracy to solve the crime. The one real clue I’ve found—the existence of Isabella’s mystery lover—I haven’t shared. I’ve done nothing, really, except get myself attacked in an alley and a park.

  That must stop. I need to get off my ass and take action.

  Just as I think that,
a message pops up.

  PCTracy: Good morning! Or nearly afternoon. I hope you got a good sleep.

  LlamaGirl: I did! Thank you! Please tell me I wasn’t supposed to check out at eleven.

  PCTracy: LOL No. You’re booked for another night if you want it.

  LlamaGirl: I want it. I really need the rest, and I’m just going to hole up for a bit longer if that’s okay.

  PCTracy: Absolutely okay.

  Of course it is. Just keep sending treats my way, and I’ll curl up on the king-sized bed with Netflix while you investigate.

  I had wanted to ask his advice about Tiana. That urge has evaporated. I know what he’d say: just stay inside. Rest in your cage. Let me handle this.

  I know what he’d say, and I know what I must do.

  Get off my ass and take action.

  I continue messaging with PCTracy as I get ready. Then I sign off as I slip out the door.

  I have a lunch engagement to keep.

  As furious as I am about being stashed in that hotel room, I will admit that I needed the rest. I’m refreshed and clear-headed, and having not looked online today, nothing has happened to send me spiraling back into the memory quagmire. Thompson may have intended to only keep me safe while PCTracy investigated, but instead, he gave me what I needed to start moving forward with purpose.

  I arrive at Tiana’s building just before noon. It’s in Brooklyn, and while it might have been a three-story residential walk-up once, it’s been converted into a row of three-level units. All bear discreet business signs.

  I survey the building from across the road, which isn’t easy. In Manhattan, I’d grumbled about the crush of people and the endless skyscrapers. There’d been far fewer alleys and service lanes than a fugitive requires. At least, though, there’d been a sense of anonymity. Here I feel exposed.