Every Step She Takes

by K. L. Armstrong

  As the doors shut, he scrambles to catch them while I pretend to grab something from the floor. I shout, “Be right back!” and the doors close.

  Even as the doors close, his footfalls pound the floor. I hit a button. The elevator starts down, and I can’t help but smile, imagining Thompson’s mad dash to the bottom floor. I’ll be long gone by the time he—

  The elevator stops, and the doors open, and a quartet of chattering office workers steps on. I hit the third-floor button before the doors shut. When they open again, I squeeze out and jog for the second stairwell.

  I fly down and out the side door. I know Thompson will come after me. I know he’ll call staff to come after me. I know he’ll even notify the police to come after me.

  When I reach the dumpster where I stashed my bag, I pull on the blond wig and quick-change my shirt. Then I walk two blocks until I find a suitable spot to pull over and breathe, just breathe.

  I screwed up.

  God, I screwed up so bad.

  I take out my phone, navigate to the browser and log on to my old e-mail so I can search PCTracy’s original messages for the clues I should have picked up. I don’t find any. I can berate myself all I want, but given my frame of mind when I got those messages, my mistake is forgivable. Which doesn’t mean I’ll forgive myself for it.

  I automatically reach for the messaging app to contact PCTracy. I want his advice. Only I find my finger hovering over an empty spot on the screen.

  Did I overreact by deleting the app? Possibly. But I need to pursue answers on my own. I can contact him any time I want. If I want. If I trust him again.

  I’m not sure that’s possible.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  After I leave Thompson’s office, I long to return to my hotel suite. Burrow in where I can relax and think. There will be none of that now. Even if I could do it, I shouldn’t. I’d needed that time—desperately needed it—but I’d been hiding, too. Hiding in a plush suite, eating all my favorite foods, and waiting for PCTracy to resolve my problem.

  It’s midafternoon in the busiest city on the continent. I just need to avoid the temptation to find a quiet place to hide because that’s where I get myself into trouble. Empty streets and alleyways and parks. There is someone out there looking for me, and if he’s tracking me right now, I can do nothing about that except stay where there are too many people for him to make a move.

  Could PCTracy be my stalker? The answer seems to be a resounding yes. I know PCTracy is male, like my attacker. Our conversation makes me feel as if he’s in my age bracket, same as my attacker. Most damning, though? PCTracy admitted he could track me through the app. He said he could only do it when I was on Wi-Fi, but the library was far from the first time I used that.

  What about the guy in the park who went after my attacker? PCTracy could have brought in a colleague to play the role of rescuer so he could later confess to “saving” me. Or the second man could have been an actual Good Samaritan.

  I don’t want to believe PCTracy is my stalker. I must accept the possibility, though, which means the messaging app stays deleted.

  I find myself a busy coffee shop and settle in as I check the Internet for more information on my case, busywork to calm my mind and hone my focus.

  I find something right away. A site has leaked the hotel surveillance photo of me. At first, I almost ignore the link. I’ve seen that photograph already. Then I notice the time stamp, and my body goes cold.

  The photo was captured at 3:35 a.m.

  Hours before I arrived.

  Reports had placed me in the hotel earlier, and I’d dismissed them because I knew I wasn’t. Yet here is the alleged proof.

  I open the photo.

  The picture is grainy and off-center, and I exhale as I realize that even if it’d been crystal clear, there’s no way anyone could prove I was this woman. She is walking past a lobby chair, and from that point of reference, I can tell she’s significantly shorter than I am.

  The woman has her face turned away from the camera, and she’s wearing sunglasses, despite the fact it’s three a.m. Her hair is red and straight, like mine. As for her figure, that’s marred by a fashionable shawl.

  This woman is trying to be me. I’m certain of it. That shawl conceals her figure. The glasses and hair hide her face, and she’s deliberately looking away from the camera. She moved quickly through the lobby, leaving only an impression of a redheaded woman.

  Tiana?

  Even as my gut wonders that, I recoil. Not Tiana. She’s full-figured, where I am not.

  But that shawl hides the woman’s figure.

  Tiana’s skin is darker than mine.

  Not so dark that she couldn’t pass for me at a glance while people are focusing on the red hair. That’s always what they remember.

  The woman is the right height for Tiana.

  Stop that. It isn’t Tiana.

  Why?

  Because I don’t want it to be.

  I take a deep breath. Then I open the e-mail box I’d asked her to use, hoping for more. Instead, I find an e-mail from PCTracy. The subject line reads: “Open Me.”

  I almost delete it. That would be silly, though, and when I open it, I’m glad I did. He wants to talk, of course, but for now, he’s just passing on what he told me earlier he’d found.

  You mentioned Isabella might have a lover. I’ve been chasing that lead, and I found this. I still don’t know who the guy is, but it’s a start.

  I already know who Isabella’s lover is—Justice Kane—but I still read on in hopes of confirming that.

  It’s with a blind item from last fall. Such tidbits were hugely popular back in the days of gossip pages. “Blind item” means the people involved aren’t named, adding the scintillating air of a delicious mystery along with an unearned aura of veracity—if someone fears naming names, clearly it must be true. Today they’re more likely to be found on social media, which is where this one turned up on Twitter.

  NYCGirl5ft2: Right place, right time. Club99 back hall. Me, lost, kinda drunk, looking for la toilette. Stumble on a couple going at it.

  NYCGirl5ft2: No, not “going at it” like that. Mind out of gutter, ppl. Fighting. Figured lovers quarrel. He’s hot. She’s hot. Must be a couple. Then I see his face.

  NYCGirl5ft2: Boy band hottie turned grown man hottie. Nearly wet my pants. He so fine. That’s when I recognize the chick. Daddy’s a movie star. Action bro. Only, she don’t like dick…allegedly.

  NYCGirl5ft2: So I think, I got you, faker. You like dick just fine. Then, plot twist. I realize they’re fighting about her momma.

  NYCGirl5ft2: He’s banging her MOM. Her MOM. And she’s pissed. Spitting mad. I’m, like, I don’t know who to root for. Her, for being so fired up. Or her mom, for tapping THAT. #OldLadyGoals #IGottaSecret

  The details fit Tiana and Justice. But NYCGirl5ft2 is just a regular person with a couple hundred followers. Naturally, her friends want details, but she refuses—those involved are rich and famous, and she jokes she’ll end up in the East River if she talks.

  When her friends try to convince her to sell her story, she demurs, saying that she’s not going to ruin people’s lives for a few bucks. Her friends assure her she could make more than “a few bucks,” and she reverts to her jokes about the East River. While she’s enjoying the thrill of having a secret, she’s a decent person acting decently. She finally closes the thread with a Tweet that makes me kinda love her.

  NYCGirl5ft2: Look, I can joke about dude banging her mom, but when girl got up in his face, he never fired back. He said he was in love, totes respected her mom and just wanted to make her happy. #LifeGoals #WhereDoIGetOne?

  One of her friends apparently wasn’t happy with that answer and posted it on a blind item si
te, where people have been madly guessing at those involved. Sure enough, Tiana came up a few times, given the “lesbian with action-hero father” clues. It never went beyond that, but those comments explain how PCTracy found it.

  Tiana was angry with Justice for having an affair with Isabella.

  Is that important?

  I’m not sure, but it confirms he’s the mystery lover and gets me wondering whether he’s still in New York. A quick search tells me yes. He’s here for the funeral, which he’ll attend as a family friend.

  I need to talk to Justice.

  The problem is finding him.

  No, actually, that isn’t a problem at all. In his texts to Isabella, he mentioned he’s staying at the Baccarat. And I may not even need to go that far. I have the guy’s phone number, and just because he isn’t answering doesn’t mean he’s not checking texts.

  * * *

  —

  “Hello, Justice,” I say as I walk around the fountain in front of Lincoln Center. He’s sitting on the edge, and when I walk up, he has his elbows on his knees, head down, hood shadowing his face. While the square is busy, there’s a bubble around him. He might be a mega-selling rock star, but all they see today is a big Black guy in a hoodie and high-tops.

  When he glances up, there’s a wry twist of a smile on his face, one that shoots me back in time to that night on the beach.

  “Hey, Lucy.” He thumps the spot beside him.

  I slide in. “How’re you holding up?”

  He shrugs. Then he cuts a look my way. “I presume from your text that you know about…”

  “You and Isabella? Yes.”

  “So the police are right. You have her phone.”

  “I do, and I’m sorry about that. It’s a long story.”

  “Well, I’d like to hear it, but I think we should talk someplace a little more private.”

  I shake my head. “Sorry. I’ve…had trouble with that.”

  His brows shoot up. “You okay?” He pauses and then shakes his head. “Dumb question. You’re wanted for murder. You are definitely not okay.”

  “True. While a private talk makes sense, I accepted one with Tiana earlier today, and she notified the cops before I even arrived. After we spoke, she warned me, and I got out of there, but I’m being extra cautious.”

  “Tiana…” He shakes his head again and eases back, long legs outstretched. “When I was with the band, I was the ‘nice guy.’ That was my role, and not just in public. I was the one who made friends with every sound tech and roadie and superfan. There was this one roadie, though, an old-timer who just decided he didn’t like my face. Or maybe the color of my face. Whatever his problem, I made it my personal mission to win him over. Never did, but I kept trying, like a puppy determined to get a pet from the one person who hates dogs. These days, that’s me and Tiana. Even if she wasn’t Izzy’s kid, I’d like her, and she used to like me fine…until she found out about me and her mom.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “And I’m sorry she pulled that shit on you. At least she came around in the end. Tee is complicated, like her momma. Only, with Tee, there’s a prickly fence wrapped around that complicated interior, and most folks can’t breach it.” Another look my way. “You did, once upon a time. Which probably makes this harder on her.”

  I sigh, and he bumps his shoulder against mine. “That’s not an invitation to a guilt trip.”

  I look over at him. “I didn’t kill Isabella.”

  “If I thought you did, we would not be having this conversation. You’re being set up. Any moron can see that. Someone murdered…” He takes a deep breath and then says, in a low voice, “I’ve never wanted to kill anyone before. Never even wanted to hurt anyone. But when you find out who did this, you’d better make sure they’re arrested before you tell me. Or they won’t be the one going to jail for murder.”

  “I’m sorry. I know…” I swallow. “You won’t want to talk about this. I know that.”

  “Won’t want to talk about it.” He enunciates the words, rolling them out. “Lucy, you have no idea how much I want to talk about this. I want to stand on this fountain and shout it to the world. I love Isabella Morales, and she loved me, and what we had…”

  He rocks back. “Shit, this isn’t going to help.” He puts on his sunglasses and glances over. “I don’t remember ever not loving Isabella. When she invited me to that beach party, I thought…” A small laugh. “I was young, and hopeful and dumb enough to think she might be inviting me to her wedding anniversary party because she felt something for me, too. Turned out I was there…”

  “For me,” I say.

  “Yeah, I wasn’t sure if you knew that.”

  “Isabella told me.”

  “Of course she did. So she invited me as companionship for you. Maybe even a hookup for you. Which told me I didn’t have a hope in hell of getting with her. It changed nothing. When that bullshit hit with you and Colt, I totally took advantage. I was there for Izzy. I wanted her to see me as more than a kid. And she did, eventually…she saw me as a friend.” Another laugh. “That’s all it was for years. Me, pining after her and making do with friendship. Then…”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know what happened. Maybe I hit the magic age where she wouldn’t feel like a dirty old lady—her words, not mine. We got past the age barrier, and I got my dream woman, and she was everything I wanted and more. We were waiting for Jamie to get out of rehab, and then Isabella would divorce Colt, and we’d get married. I’d already given her the ring.”

  He folds his hands. “I have no idea where it is now. Probably hidden in a drawer, where no one will ever find it. Just like us—a secret no one will ever know.”

  “I’m so, so sorry. I really am.”

  “I always considered myself an excellent judge of character, and I remember the girl I met at that beach party. From the start, I told Izzy my theory about what really happened. Turned out, I was dead right. At least I got a chance to say I told you so.”

  He tries for a smile, but his lips quiver. He runs a hand over them. “We had five years together. I keep reminding myself of that. For five years, I got to hear Isabella Morales tell me I was the love of her life. I got all of her for five years, and I got her friendship for fourteen, and that is more than most people will ever have. More than I thought I’d have.”

  He looks at me. “Isabella died knowing the truth about that night, and she died forgiving you, and she died hell-bent on a mission to make things right. To tell your story—yours and hers. Circe and Penelope speaking out over the voice of Odysseus, that’s what she called it, and it meant so much to her. She died with a fire in her belly, Lucy. With her dignity restored, and that amazing mind set on a mission, and that’s something. It’s really something.”

  I tentatively reach for his hand, and when he takes mine, I squeeze, and we sit in silence. Then he straightens and says, “So you have a story for me.”

  “I do.”

  I tell him the timeline of the morning of the murder. Nothing in that surprises him. I suspect it’s like when Isabella told him what really happened fourteen years ago. It only confirmed what he’d already figured out.

  “You were in New York that night,” I say. “I know you were.”

  He nods. “I didn’t see her, though. We talked for over an hour that night. We were going to meet up for breakfast. She planned to sneak over to my hotel. I expected her at ten. Instead, as I was waiting, I found out what happened.”

  “Tiana didn’t notify you, I take it.”

  A short laugh. “I haven’t talked to Tiana in months. When she found out about me and her mom, I held off, letting her speak to Izzy before I did. Instead, Tiana acted like she didn’t know, so I played along. It was best to leave that ball in her court.”

  “What about Colt?”

  A low rumble, almost like a growl. “Colt an
d I haven’t been on speaking terms in fourteen years. I’m cordial to him in public for Izzy’s sake. I’ve wanted nothing to do with him since he messed around with you. He hurt her, and he humiliated her.”

  “Do you know if Isabella had any problems with him the night of her death?”

  “Nothing more than you’d expect. He didn’t like her talking to you. Really didn’t like it. Unfortunately, he was in LA when she died. Otherwise, he’d be my number-one suspect.”

  When I don’t comment, he takes off the sunglasses, and his eyes narrow. “He was in LA, wasn’t he?”

  I still stay nothing.

  “Lucy…even if you tell me he was here, I’m not going after him. That would be critical information for the police, though.”

  “He flew into Connecticut around midnight.”

  He frowns. “Where in Connecticut?”

  “New Haven.”

  “To see Jamie?”

  When I frown, Justice says, “Ah, so we’re trading valuable information here. I didn’t know Colt was on the East Coast that night, and you didn’t know Jamie’s rehab is outside New Haven. That’s not public knowledge. It explains why Colt was here, though.”

  “To see his son.”

  “Yeah. A dick move from a dick. Shocking.”

  I arch my brows. “Visiting his son in rehab is a dick move?”

  Justice gives me a look. “That wasn’t Colt being Daddy-of-the-Year. It was Colt gathering reinforcements for his battle with Isabella over you. Because that’s what your kid in rehab really needs—you showing up at midnight to pull him into a fight with your mom.”

  “Colt wanted Jamie to side with him and agree that Isabella should stay away from me.”

  “Which proves Colt didn’t know the first damn thing about his son, as usual. Jamie sided with you in that scandal crap. We agree on that, me and him. Always have.”