Every Step She Takes

by K. L. Armstrong

  “Jamie?”

  “He said there was more to the story. Well, he did once he was older. At the time, he wouldn’t talk about it. But when he was a teenager, if your name came up, he’d say you didn’t have a fling with his father, that it was a misunderstanding. Izzy didn’t argue—if he believed that, so be it.”

  “It affected him, though. The scandal.”

  Justice purses his lips. “Not really. Of the three, I think he was the least impacted. By the scandal, at least. Losing you was another thing.” He glances over. “But if you think the kid was permanently traumatized? Hell, no. Jamie’s problems go deeper than some silly tabloid scandal, and they all trace back to Daddy.”

  “His relationship with Colt? I do remember…issues.”

  “Yep, Colt had a certain set of expectations for Jamie. He was the son of Colt Gordon, action star. You gotta be a man’s man to follow in those footsteps.”

  “And that was never Jamie.”

  “Toxic masculinity is toxic. Isabella did her best, but even when she made Colt shut his mouth, Jamie could sense his father’s disapproval. Sports? Yes. Ice skating? No. Music? Sure. The violin? Hell, no. Colt judged, and Jamie felt that judgment. He wasn’t living up to expectations. Colt was certain his son was gay. Turned out he’s not…and Colt’s Princess Tiana is. Oh, the irony.”

  “How’s Jamie doing?”

  Justice brightens. “Good. Great, actually. We’re friends. Have been for years. I think he knows about his mom and me—he’s hinted at it—but Izzy wanted to wait until he was released to tell him officially. Jamie has a self-medication problem, no doubt about that. But even in his addiction, he’s responsible as hell. Checks himself into rehab and stays there until he’s back on track.”

  “Good.” I nod. “That’s really good.”

  “If you were picturing some broke-down mess, that’s not Jamie. He’s a kid with demons, but a kid who’s fighting them tooth and nail. Which is why this bullshit with Colt pisses me off. I’ve been trying to talk to Jamie since Sunday. So has Tiana, from what I’ve heard through mutual friends. Jamie’s gone into self-imposed lockdown. We’re waiting him out. You remember what he’s like. He needs his space, and he wouldn’t appreciate either of us driving up there to hover. Now that I know Colt was there Sunday night, though, that puts a whole new angle on it. Jamie isn’t just in need of alone-time to deal with his mom’s death. He knows his dad was an hour from New York. He’s working that through, deciding what to do about it.”

  “Because Colt could have seen Jamie and still had time to kill Isabella.”

  “Exactly.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  After I leave Justice, I linger, making sure he walks away first. If I am identified, I don’t want him pulled into it. Then, as I’m making my way out of the square, I hear a voice that has my brain perking up like a happy puppy.

  Marco?

  Of course it’s not Marco. What I’m very obviously hearing is the contralto Italian-accented voice of a man who speaks perfect English, which is a lot more common in New York than an American speaking perfect Italian in Rome.

  Still, I look. I can’t help it. I even spot the back of someone who could be Marco over by the entrance to Juilliard. Dark curly hair. Athletic physique. He’s wearing a tight T-shirt and cutoff jean shorts, and while he presents a very fine rear view, that is definitely not Marco’s fashion style.

  He’s talking animatedly to a man and a woman. That’s also not Marco’s style despite the stereotype of the gesticulating Italian. With reluctance, I pull my gaze away to scan for who is actually speaking in that Marco-like voice. The hot-guy-in-cutoffs quarter turns, and I stop so abruptly my shoes squeak.

  It’s Marco.

  A fantasy flits through my brain, that after e-mailing me, Marco hopped onto a flight to New York and tracked me down to offer his help.

  The problem with that story? The tracking-me-down part. I’m a fugitive, and he isn’t exactly a private eye.

  This is just some guy who looks enough like Marco that my brain is conflating him with another nearby tourist who sounds like Marco. Marco wouldn’t be caught dead in that outfit, and he doesn’t gesticulate like this.

  So it’s not him.

  Except it is. I’m looking at the face I’ve woken up beside for countless nights. Which makes no logical sense.

  I’m losing my mind.

  Someone laughs loudly, and not-Marco glances over. I sidestep fast behind a knot of students. As he turns, I see his face full-on, and there is no doubt it is Marco, right down to the cleft-lip scar.

  The woman with him turns my way. In her hand is a small video camera. I follow her gaze as it lands on the spot where I’d been sitting with Justice. The now-empty spot. She lets out a curse that has the blond man beside her jumping to attention.

  They’re journalists.

  No, they’re paparazzi. I know the look.

  What is Marco doing with paparazzi?

  Do I want to know?

  I do. Yet the woman has realized I’m no longer where I’d been, and she’s moving away from Marco, her gaze scanning the fountain square.

  I withdraw. I must, as much as I want to figure out what the hell is going on here.

  I slip around a restaurant and onto the sidewalk. Then I move as fast as I dare, adopting the New Yorker walk, purposeful strides that cut through the tourist clusters.

  Marco.

  That was Marco.

  What is he doing here?

  Not just in New York, but with a couple of papar—

  “Keep walking,” a voice says, and I’m so distracted that I inwardly exhale in relief, thinking it’s Marco. Before I can even look over, I realize my mistake because I made it before, waking in a park and thinking the voice whispering in my ear was Marco’s.

  It’s the same voice.

  I stiffen, but the man’s arm is already around my waist, pulling me against his side as we walk. My insides explode with panic, the air suddenly too thin to breathe.

  Earlier, I thought I’d be safe in public. I am safe. We’re surrounded by people on a busy sidewalk. I just need to be sure he doesn’t take me anyplace private, and I’m not stupid enough to allow—

  Cold presses against my side, and this time, it isn’t a knife. It’s a gun.

  “Keep walking,” he says in a voice so pleasant it chills me even more than that icy gun barrel.

  I glance at him.

  “Eyes forward, Lucy,” he says. “We’re just a happy couple out for a stroll.” Another two steps. “I think it’s time you and I had a chat, don’t you?”

  I look around.

  “You could do that,” he says, his voice still conversational. “It’s a busy street. You can scream. You can run. And you can find out how serious I am about pulling this trigger.”

  Another two steps.

  “Have you ever seen hit men in movies?” he asks. “They go through elaborate schemes to eliminate a target. It’s Hollywood bullshit. A silenced gun. A busy street. A nondescript guy who shoots and keeps walking. Or maybe he’ll shout for help. Oh, my God, this woman just fell to the sidewalk! She needs medical attention! Then as the crowd gathers, he slips away, invisible.”

  My heart thuds so loud I struggle to speak. “Is that what you are? A hit man?”

  “Mmm, no, that’s a very specific job description, and I’m much more flexible. You killed Isabella Morales, Lucy, and someone has decided they can’t rely on the justice system to see actual justice done. You—”

  “Excuse me,” says a voice in a heavy Italian accent.

  The man pretends not to hear and walks faster, but then he stops short as the speaker grabs his arm.

  Marco’s gaze doesn’t even flick my way. He just meets my captor’s glare with a disarming smile.

  “Excuse me,” Marco says again. “I look for…I l
ook for 911 monument, yes?”

  “Take your goddamn hand off my—”

  “The 9/11 Memorial?” I say quickly, as if trying to get rid of this tourist.

  Marco releases the man and turns my way. “Grazie.”

  I give directions. As I do, I cut my gaze subtly toward the gun. The man looks as if he has his hand casually resting on my back, jacket draped over his arm. The gun is hidden beneath it. Marco nods without even following my gaze. He’s already figured that out—the jacket over an arm in June is a giveaway.

  Marco asks me to repeat a few parts of my directions. My captor grows increasingly impatient, but he doesn’t dare make a scene.

  “Lincoln subway station, yes?” Marco says.

  “Right. You want to head back to the Lincoln Center subway—”

  I’m not even sure what Marco does then. It happens too fast. I’m midsentence, and he’s listening intently. Then I’m shoved aside, and when I catch my balance, he’s got my attacker by the arm. A sharp twist, and Marco is bouncing away, holding the jacket in a bundle.

  “And I’m not going to tell you again!” Marco says, slamming his open palm into the man’s chest, his accent American now. “I catch you sniffing around my girl, and I will kick your ass. You got it?”

  People part around them, as if the two men are traffic cones that shot from the concrete.

  Marco continues his diatribe as my stalker struggles to regain his mental footing. I spot an available cab and leap to the curb, waving. Marco doesn’t seem to notice, but he has the handle before the taxi rolls to a stop, yanking open the door and bustling me inside. He climbs in behind me as I tell the driver to “just drive.”

  My stalker lunges for the door as the cab pulls away.

  I spin on Marco. “What—?”

  “PCTracy,” he says, extending a hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  We’re in a hotel. I don’t know which one. Some grand old dame near the park. Everything else is a blur as Marco bustles me in and up the elevator. It’s only after I step into the room that I turn to him.

  “You’re…PCTracy?”

  Marco steps toward me, his lips curving in a smile. When I back away, that smile twists with chagrin.

  “All right,” he murmurs. “Not exactly the way I imagined this.” He clears his throat. “Largo di Torre Argentina.”

  “What?”

  “It was our second date. We were looking at the Largo di Torre Argentina. You said you’d read a mystery where someone was murdered there, at the same place Caesar was presumably assassinated, but seeing it, you realized the writer had never been to Rome, because the scene made no sense. That got us talking about mysteries and then about classic mysteries and then about—”

  “Dick Tracy,” I say. “You’d read the old comics as a kid.”

  “I thought you might get the connection, but I also knew it was a long time ago, a passing conversation.”

  “You pretended to be a private investigator?”

  His brows shoot up. “Pretended?”

  I eye him and then lean back against the wall, arms crossed. “So when you said you wished you could fly out and help, but you’d just make things worse? Because you’re only a tour guide and bike courier?”

  “Uh…”

  I give him a hard look.

  Marco sighs. “Yes, I lied, but if I admitted I’d been an investigator, you would have still insisted I stay home so I couldn’t be implicated. If I showed up anyway, you’d have blamed yourself for not making your point strenuously enough.”

  “You decided it was better to ask forgiveness than permission.”

  “More like I decided to take full responsibility for my actions. I will explain everything, but right now, I’m a little more concerned with what just happened.”

  “The paparazzi finding me?”

  Now I’m the one getting a hard look. “You know that isn’t what I mean, Gen. As for them finding you, though, that was Justice’s fault.”

  Before I can speak, he hurries on. “No, he didn’t rat you out. The paparazzi were following him. Then they spotted you. Back to the real topic of concern, though…” He lifts the bundled jacket and opens it to reveal a silenced handgun. “I know it takes a lot to rattle you, Gen, but the way you handled that tells me it’s not the first time he’s come after you. He was the guy in the park, wasn’t he? I didn’t get a good look at the time, but you obviously did.”

  I hesitate. Then I nod.

  Marco sets the jacket and gun down. “Was the park the first time you’d seen him?”

  “I…I don’t think so.”

  I tell him about the attack outside the sandwich shop, and then about the man I’d briefly spotted the night before.

  He lets out a string of curses in Italian and sinks onto the bed. “So, after you’d been held at knifepoint in an alley, I suggested you spend the night in Central Park.”

  “I wasn’t sure the alley encounter was connected to Isabella’s death. I didn’t want to seem…”

  “Paranoid. I get that. But if you’d told me, I would have been paranoid for you.”

  More curses as he shakes his head. “I should have told you the truth right after the park attack. Instead, I was in a panic over what happened and just wanted…”

  “To put me safely in a hotel and shower me with goodies.”

  He exhales as he raises his eyes to mine. “I’m sorry, Gen. I’ve made a mess of this, and I could have gotten you killed.”

  I look at the gun. “Pretty sure you just saved me from getting killed.”

  “Pretty sure I wouldn’t have needed to if I’d told you who I was two days ago.”

  “If you had, I’d have sent you back to Rome for your own good, like you said.” I move to the bed and straddle his lap. “Let’s skip the blame game. We have a lot to talk about but right now…”

  I put my arms around his neck, hug him tight and whisper in his ear, “I love you.”

  He gives a start at that, obviously not what he expected, and then he takes my face between his hands and tugs it in front of his. “I would say it back, but it’s never quite the same in response. I think you know how I feel. At least, I hope you do.”

  “I kept things from you. Huge things. And when I was accused of murder, you flew across the ocean to help. Yes, I think I know how you feel about me.”

  I bring my lips to his, and he lowers me onto the bed.

  An hour later, I’m watching Marco sleep. I’m still struggling to fully comprehend what he did. I should have figured it out. The Dick Tracy reference, the food, the fact that we got along so well…

  The last is both unsettling and deeply, deeply satisfying. Unsettling because it makes me realize what I could have lost.

  My tour guide and bike courier lover used to be a private investigator. I should be shocked. I’m not. You can’t spend two years with a guy and not realize he’s done more than his current jobs suggest. I knew Marco had an undergrad degree. I knew just how smart he was. I suspected something had happened to make him decide on a quieter life, careerwise. I’d done the same. So I’m fascinated by his past, but surprised? No.

  I’m still watching Marco when one eyelid flutters. One eye opens and then the other.

  “Are you watching me sleep?” he says. “You know that’s creepy. I’d never do it to you. Especially not when you’re sleeping in a park.”

  I kiss his cheek. “This place is a whole lot nicer than a park. A little too nice if I’m being honest.” I look around the room. “Don’t tell me you’re also a secret millionaire.”

  “One quarter.”

  I arch my brows.

  “I have a modest trust fund that makes me roughly a quarter of a millionaire. I suspect it’s higher now because I haven’t touched it in years and my parents are nothing if not good investor
s.”

  Marco has never talked much about his family except to say he comes from a big Italian one, but contra-stereotype, they aren’t particularly close.

  When he doesn’t elaborate, awkward silence falls. A silence that it’s my job to fill because there’s something I really need to say.

  “I am so sorry, Marco. I lied to you. Lied about who I was. Lied about my past. Lied about why I was coming to New York. I’m not who you thought I was.”

  He touches my chin. “You are Genevieve Callahan. You are from Albany. Your mother is a retired schoolteacher, and your dad died when you were five. You went to Juilliard for viola. I know all that, and all of it is true. You are smart. You are kind. You are funny and sweet and good. You didn’t lie about who you are, Gen.”

  My cheeks heat at the compliments. “I still should have told you the rest. You suffered for that. They exposed you online and threatened your job, and you couldn’t even say that you already knew about my past. I never gave you that opportunity, and I’m sorry.”

  “I accept the apology. But to me, you didn’t lie. You just omitted things. We both avoided talking about our pasts. I kept a lot from you, too, as you may be realizing now.”

  “Did you sleep with a celebrity? Please tell me you did.”

  He chuckles. “Sorry, no. My downfall was worse…and far more mundane.” He rolls onto his back and pulls me on top of him. “Do you want to hear it?”

  “Hell, yes.”

  “Well, you know I got my bachelor’s degree in the US. I also went to law school here. I clerked in a defense attorney’s office, where I ended up doing more investigative work than clerking. After my second time failing the bar exam, I had an epiphany. If I wanted to pass, I needed to study.”

  I smile. “I’ve heard that.”

  “Weird, huh? The real epiphany was that there was a reason I wasn’t studying. I didn’t want to practice law. Never had. It was my parents’ game plan. Instead, I’d discovered a career I actually enjoyed.”

  “Investigating.”

  “Yep. I gave up on law, and the firm hired me on full-time. My parents were furious. Disowned me. Did you know that’s actually a thing? I figured it was just something people did in historical novels. Apparently not.”