Every Step She Takes

by K. L. Armstrong

  He’s making light, but old confusion and hurt cloud his eyes.

  “I’m so sorry, Marco.”

  He shrugs. “We were never close. I went to school in the US to get away from them. When I gave up law, they severed ties in hopes it’d scare me into changing my mind. Instead, I opened my trust fund, paid them back for my tuition, and stayed in America as an investigator. Fast-forward three years. We were representing this guy in court—a real son-of-a-bitch—and I met his wife. She came to me later, asking for help gathering incriminating evidence against her husband for a divorce suit.”

  “Ah.”

  “It wasn’t anything to do with his less-than-legal activities. That would have been a violation of my employment contract. Still…let’s just say I didn’t tell my boss. What she wanted was evidence of infidelity. Typical PI work, and not my thing but…”

  His cheeks heat, and he rubs a hand over his face. “I know this reflects badly on me, so I’m just going to get it out in the open. She was very pretty and very fragile, and my chivalric streak exploded.”

  “You had a fling with her.”

  “I almost wish I could say yes, because the truth seems even more embarrassing.”

  “That you helped her without getting any?” I waggle my brows.

  “Oh, it was on offer from the start, but I was being a gentleman. I’d see her through the divorce and then hope for more than a weekend fling. I didn’t want to take advantage of her fragility, especially considering she was in an abusive marriage.”

  “Ouch.”

  “The more she shared, the more I wanted to kill the guy. Then she asked me to kill him. Came to me in tears with fresh bruises, begging me to get rid of him so we could be together. That’s when the alarm bells clanged.”

  “There was no abuse.”

  “Exactly. While I felt like a bastard for doubting her, I had to investigate. Turned out her husband was an asshole, but he wasn’t abusing her. She just wanted his money, and I was the chump who’d help her get it. As I was deciding how to handle the situation, her husband wound up dead in an alley.”

  “Damn.”

  “Oh, yeah. When the cops showed up on my doorstep, I bolted back to Italy. I was in hiding for six months before they caught the actual killer. I lost my PI license for fleeing the country, and my old firm isn’t ever giving me a job reference.”

  “And that experience totally cured your white-knight fantasies. Oh, wait…”

  He loops his arms around my neck. “Hey, this is not the same thing. At all. I am a fully recovered white knight, who has traded in his fantasies of saving a damsel-in-distress for the much more realistic—and healthy—fantasy of supporting and aiding his capable girlfriend through a difficult time. Instead of pulling you onto my faithful steed and riding off with you, I’m standing by your side and offering the use of my lance.”

  I sputter a laugh.

  He hesitates, as if replaying his words, and then rolls his eyes. “Get your mind out of the gutter, woman.” He pulls me into a kiss and then, with a sigh, moves me aside. “And as much as I would love to distract ourselves with more of that, we need to talk strategy.”

  It’s time to share what we know—fully and completely—and plan our next move.

  The next morning, we’re on a train to Connecticut. Yes, a train. After yesterday’s encounter, we want to stick to public places as much as possible.

  For a disguise, we’re playing “Italian newlyweds honeymooning in New York.” Marco wears shorts, sandals and a button-down shirt, all designer wear, fitting the stereotype of the fashionable European. I’m in a linen sundress and heels with a wig of long strawberry-blond hair brushed straight. We both sport shiny wedding bands, and I have a gorgeous fake engagement ring.

  We get business-class tickets and speak in Italian. When we need to communicate with anyone, I let Marco do it—he has the properly accented English. Even in Italian, we mostly chatter about our honeymoon in case anyone nearby speaks the language.

  Once on the train, we find ourselves in a half-empty car—it’s midmorning, and we’re traveling out of New York. We can relax then, and while we stick to Italian, we’re not as careful with what we say unless someone’s walking past.

  To anyone seeing us, we maintain our personas. I sit with my shoes off and my feet curled beneath me as I lean against my new husband. The perfect picture of newly wedded bliss.

  As befits a modern couple, while we’re cuddling together, we’re also on our separate phones. Marco assured me the train Wi-Fi is safe for what I’m doing, which is getting more information on Jamison’s facility, so we’re prepared. Marco is the one doing the case work—he’s cultivated a few contacts by trading tidbits of my information.

  He’d only traded the stuff I want to give away, of course. Scraps like “Look at the photo of the redhead at the hotel. Lucy Callahan is five-nine. That woman isn’t more than five-three.” Or “I’ve heard Lucy received early morning texts from Isabella. Has anyone examined Isabella’s phone records?” Or “Someone called the hotel staff to Isabella’s room when Lucy just happened to be on the premises. Doesn’t that seem odd?”

  He has traded carefully, and judiciously and entirely in my best interests.

  When I finish checking out the rehab facility, I search for developments on the case. It takes a while before I find one, and when I do, I have to laugh. I expect Marco to ask what’s funny. When he doesn’t—presuming I’ll explain when I’m ready—I finish reading the article first.

  “So, get this,” I say, waving the phone. “Colt gave his first post-widower interview, and the man has actually found a way to make this all about him. I’m not sure if I should be enraged by his arrogance or impressed by his ingenuity. Colt is claiming Isabella’s death is part of a conspiracy against him. A conspiracy that began—get this—with our scandal.”

  Marco says nothing, as if waiting for me to go on.

  “According to Colt,” I say, “someone set him up fourteen years ago. Someone who recognized he was in a vulnerable position and foisted me on him, knowing he’d fall prey to temptation.”

  I snort. “Because I was such a temptress. According to Colt, someone sent me to him in his moment of weakness, hoping that the scandal would torpedo his career. Instead, he came back stronger than ever, which proves his talent.”

  Marco still doesn’t answer. I lean against him and lift my phone higher so he can see the ridiculously somber picture of Colt acting the role of “mourning widower.”

  When Marco says nothing, I twist to look at him. He’s staring into space.

  “Marco?” I say.

  “Hmm?”

  “You missed everything I just said, didn’t you?”

  A faint smile as he kisses my temple. “I just got…” He lifts his phone. “I received information from the coroner’s report. Isabella did fall and crack her skull. Enough that she probably lost consciousness, might have even suffered a concussion. But that wasn’t what killed her.”

  He looks at me. “While she was unconscious, someone put a pillow over her face and suffocated her.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Isabella was murdered.

  Yeah…that’s the reason you’re on the run, Lucy. Did you forget that?

  No one is chasing me to ask whether I witnessed a fatal slip-and-fall. No one is even raising the possibility that it was an accidental shove. Yet that is what I’ve presumed.

  When I suspect Tiana or Justice or even Colt, I envision a fight, probably about me. Accidental death or manslaughter, followed by a panicked cover-up that implicates me.

  That is not what happened.

  Isabella hit her head and likely lost consciousness. Did she take a tumble? Was it an accidental fall during an argument? Or did someone bash her head onto that tile step? I don’t know, and it doesn’t really matter. She fell. She lost consciousness. An
d then someone killed her.

  Someone gazed down at Isabella, vulnerable and defenseless, and they saw an opportunity. Picked up a pillow, and put it over her face and smothered her.

  We rent a car and drive to the rehab center. As one might expect, it’s a country club of a hospital. This isn’t where people go to serve court-mandated sentences; it’s a facility that accepts voluntary—and well-paying—clients only.

  From my research on the train, I know what to expect. There’s a main building, which had once been a sprawling manor. That’s where clients stay when they’re in withdrawal. Once past that stage, they can move into a private cottage on the fifty-acre property while attending treatment sessions in the main house.

  I was in touch with Justice last night, and according to him, Jamison’s cottage is in a cluster far from the house. We pull off along a side road and walk through the forest. That’s probably what Colt had done Sunday night, too.

  We aren’t even at the cottage yet when I spot Jamison in the forest, walking a toddling puff of black-and-white fur. I remember something Justice said last night.

  Izzy got him a puppy. A border collie cross. It needs a lot of exercise, and that’s what he wanted. Something to be responsible for, and something to get him out of his cabin…and out of his head. That’s really what Jamie needs most. To get out of his own head, get out of his own way.

  As I approach, I clear my throat, so I don’t startle Jamison. He looks up, and not a flicker of surprise crosses those dark eyes.

  “Lucy,” he says with the faintest of smiles. “I wondered when you’d get around to me.”

  “You heard I’ve been making the rounds?” I ask as I walk over.

  “Nah. But I knew you would. Tiana first, right? Then Justice?”

  Those dark eyes twinkle, but it’s muted, shadowed amusement and affection. He picks up the whining puppy and glances over my shoulder as Marco comes up behind me. His gaze slides over Marco, sharp and appraising. Then a small nod, as if satisfied.

  He steps toward Marco and extends a hand. “Jamie.”

  “Marco.”

  “Boyfriend or bodyguard?”

  Marco’s lips twitch. “Both.” He eases back. “Are you okay with me being here? I can give you some privacy, but I’d prefer to stay close to Gen.”

  “Gen.” Jamison pronounces it the way Marco does—Zhun rather than Jen. He looks at me. “Is that what you prefer?”

  “Either’s fine.”

  He lifts his free arm, as if for a hug. I step into it, and he gives me a quick squeeze. He smells of dew-damp puppy, and clean aftershave and Jamison. Mostly of Jamison, and my eyes fill with tears.

  As I swipe away a tear, he shakes his head. “None of that. Also, please don’t tell me I look good. I trust you can do better than that. God, Jamie, for a recovering alcoholic and drug addict, you look awesome.”

  I smile through the tears. “I won’t say it, but if I did, I wouldn’t mean it like that.”

  He does look good, strong and healthy. A younger, slighter-built version of his father with his mother’s smile and keen gaze. He’s absurdly handsome, as one might expect, given his genetic inheritance. But there’s none of Colt’s arrogance or even Isabella’s confidence. He isn’t the diffident boy I remember, but there’s a quietness to him, a gentle maturity.

  I remember meeting Tiana at ten and thinking how much older she seemed. Now it’s Jamison who acts and feels so much older. Unnecessarily older. He’s keeping this conversation calm, light even, putting a good face on his grief, but there’s an unmistakable melancholy.

  “Can we take this conversation inside?” he asks.

  “May I carry the puppy?” I ask.

  His eyes crinkle at the corners as he passes her over. “Definitely. Her name is Molly, by the way.” He falls in step beside me. “It’s good to see you, Lucy. I won’t add ‘despite the circumstances.’ It’s just good to see you, and before you tell me that you didn’t kill my mother, I know that. I think everyone knows that, really. It’s just…” He shrugs. “It’ll be resolved soon. You have nothing to worry about.”

  Because he knows Colt went to New York on Sunday night. He knows his father’s secret, and that firm certainty in his voice says he won’t let me be scapegoated for this.

  I loop my arm through his. He stiffens, as if in surprise, but when I go to pull away, he keeps me there.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Obviously, for your mom. That goes without saying.”

  “It does.”

  “But the…rest, too. I know what happened…the way I left and the fallout from that for your family…”

  He slows at the edge of the forest and glances over. “Do you think you’re responsible for this?” He gestures around the grounds of the rehab facility.

  “Not entirely, but what happened didn’t help.”

  “What happened at the beach party wasn’t about me. It wasn’t about you and me, either. It was my dad being…” He makes a face, as if hating to speak against his father. “Dad being Dad. I was upset and angry. At the time, I only understood that you’d done something wrong and were sent away for it, and you weren’t coming back next year, like Mom had promised. That’s what I cared about. That you weren’t coming back.”

  He opens the door to his cottage and ushers us inside. I put down Molly, and she scrambles for her bowl, careening over the hardwood floor. Jamison chuckles as he fills her water. Marco silently passes us to take a seat in the living room. I stay in the kitchen with Jamison as he feeds the puppy.

  Then he says, “You aren’t responsible for me being here, Lucy. That’s poor life choices and even poorer DNA. Addiction runs in the family. Dad’s had problems, but Mom kept him on the right path. His mother, though, was a total mess. Seems I take after her.”

  He waves toward the coffee maker. I nod, and he grabs three pods and pops in the first.

  “Fortunately,” he continues, “I seem to have inherited—or learned—a little of Mom’s common sense, too. Enough for me to see the path I’m on and switch to a better one. I wasn’t quite so clear-headed at eighteen. I blame testosterone.” A wry smile my way. “I had my fun—and my screw-ups—but I’m clean and planning to stay that way.”

  I nod, saying nothing.

  He searches my face and says, “You read about the suicide attempt. Or is it attempts now? One is far too dull.” He sets out cream and sugar. “Even one overstates the matter. Technically, I suppose getting coked up and hopping behind the wheel of a friend’s new Ferrari is suicidal, but I didn’t intend to kill myself.”

  As he hands me the first coffee, I say, “I saw you on a movie poster at the airport. That’s what you want, is it?”

  He smiles. “You still have a knack for that. What you really mean is ‘Do you actually want to be an actor, Jamie, or are you feeling pressured into it?’ ”

  He hands me a second cup with a nod toward Marco. Then he says, “The answer is that I want it. Acting, yes. Action movies…?” He makes a face. “That’s a longer discussion. But the short one is that I really am okay, Lucy.” He pauses, fingers tightening around the third mug. “Or I was last week, but again, that goes without saying.”

  He ushers me into the living room, where I hand Marco his coffee. The puppy gallops after us, and when Jamison sits, she vaults onto him. He absently pats her head, as if lost in his thoughts.

  On the coffee table, his cell phone vibrates. He shoots it a glance of annoyance. Karla’s name pops up on a text. It looks as if it isn’t the first from her this morning. Notifications fill the lock screen. Jamison turns the phone facedown.

  “You didn’t come here to talk about me,” he says.

  “I do want to know how you’re doing. I would have loved to see you before now. Long before now. It just wasn’t appropriate.”

  “I know. I tried getting in touch with you a couple of years
ago, just to say hello, but you’d gone into deep hiding by then. Can’t say I blame you. When I was a kid, I had no idea how it affected your life. Having had my own fun with the tabloids, I understand.”

  He meets my gaze. “It’s unfair, and it sucks, but what’s happening right now is even more unfair and a whole lot worse. So ask your questions. Don’t treat me with kid gloves, Lucy. You of all people know how much I hate that.”

  “I do. Okay, well…” I take a deep breath. “I won’t tiptoe around it, then. I know your father came to visit you the night your mother died. He’s pretending he never left LA, but he was here.”

  Jamison’s head jerks up, his gaze meeting mine in a look of pure confusion.

  “My…father?” A rueful laugh. “I’d ask if you mean Colt Gordon but…” A wave at his face. “There’s no question of my paternity. My dad wasn’t here, Lucy. Whatever you uncovered, it’s a mistake. I haven’t seen Dad in weeks.”

  “He caught a private jet to New Haven,” I say. “He wouldn’t do that if he wasn’t coming here.” I pause as I remember that we aren’t investigating an accidental death. This is murder. “Unless he wanted to seem like he was coming here.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.” It isn’t Jamison who speaks. It’s Marco, the first words he’s said since greeting Jamison. He speaks carefully. “If it was an alibi, Gen, Colt needed to show up here. To get an actual alibi from Jamison.”

  “Maybe he planned to say he came here, but Jamie was asleep.”

  “Then he’d have left proof. A note or something. And he wouldn’t have flown back to LA and hidden the fact he was in Connecticut. The only reason he’d do that is if…”

  Marco looks at Jamison, who hasn’t said a word, who has just sat there petting Molly. The dog whines, and I look into Jamison’s face. It’s studiously calm, but the puppy picks up his anxiety.

  “Yes,” Jamison says.

  “Yes…?” I say.