Every Step She Takes

by K. L. Armstrong

  That look vanishes in a second, replaced by hard anger and determination, his jaw setting. He does ease up on her throat, though, and Karla sputters and gasps for air.

  “I called her,” he says. “Called her for help. That’s what we’re supposed to do when we run into trouble. I used to joke I should have her phone number tattooed on my arm. Call in case of emergency. Or blackout. Or overdose.” He looks down at Karla. “Or in case my mother falls, and hits her head and isn’t breathing.”

  I glance over as Marco walks from the forest. He’s moving quietly, careful not to interrupt.

  I turn back to Jamison. “You thought your mother was dead. So you called Karla.”

  He nods, his eyes brimming with tears. “She said I had to get out of there before anyone knew I was at Mom’s hotel that night. I’m an addict and an alcoholic, and if the police didn’t blame me, the press would. She said that for Tiana and Dad’s sake, I had to leave. She’d tidy up and slip back to her room downstairs. When the hotel staff found Mom, it’d look like an accident.”

  He swipes away tears as he stands. “I shouldn’t have left. I just…I was in shock, and I kept thinking that if I left, maybe I’d wake up in an alley and realize I’d stopped to get a fix and hallucinated the whole thing.”

  I put my arms around him, and he falls against my shoulder. When Karla tries to rise, I slam my foot onto her throat.

  “Don’t give me an excuse,” I say. “I won’t let Jamie kill you, but I’m happy to do it myself.”

  Marco walks over, still quiet.

  “Got my 911 text, huh?” I say.

  He manages a tight smile, his gaze still on Karla, making sure she’s subdued.

  “Would you call the real 911 for us, please?” I ask.

  “Already have. They’re on their way.”

  I look at Jamison. “Is that okay? Are you ready for…?”

  “Ready to confess?” He meets my gaze. “I’ve been ready since Sunday night, Lucy. I just want this to be over. For all of us.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  A week later, I’m out for lunch with Tiana. Real lunch, in public—or, at least, a private dining room in a very exclusive restaurant. It’s a relief not to be a fugitive, but that doesn’t mean I can walk around New York just yet. If anything, I’m a bigger story now.

  When Jamison and I were taken into custody, Tiana hired separate lawyers for us. Marco worked with mine, and I spent a day in lockup before they sorted everything and decided not to pursue charges. Yes, I’d tampered with the scene of Isabella’s murder, but everyone seemed to decide that, under the circumstances, the optics might be better if the DA’s office overlooked my panicked mistake.

  Jamison is also free. Like me, he didn’t do anything except make questionable choices. Looking back, though, I’m not sure either of us could have done anything different without a crystal ball to guide us.

  Jamison had thought his mother was dead, so he’d brought in the person he counted on to help. At that point, realizing Isabella was alive, Karla should have called 911. Instead, she’d committed an unbelievable act of betrayal. There will be a lifetime of “what-ifs” for Jamison, but the police and DA’s office were quick to see that he wasn’t a killer.

  Proving Karla’s guilt was trickier. She admitted she was in the hotel suite that night and confessed to framing me. As for the murder weapon, she’d taken the pillowcase and shoved the insert into a closet—she could hardly walk around the hotel with a pillow under her arm. A hair on the insert matched hers, but that trivial piece of evidence wouldn’t have stood up in court.

  That’s when the police found her accomplice. It was the private eye she’d originally set on my trail in Rome at Isabella’s behest. Then she used him to plant the evidence in my hotel room and later to stalk and threaten me. Yes, threaten me. That’d been her order. Not to kill me, but to scare the crap out of me so I’d flee. She knew the evidence wouldn’t hold up, but if the police were chasing me, they wouldn’t be looking for other suspects. Of course, she hadn’t admitted to the private eye that she’d killed Isabella herself. She pretended to be protecting Jamison. That was, after all, her job. Fixer to the stars.

  No, fixer to one particular star. The only one who counted. Colt. Marco says that the DA wants to paint Karla as an obsessed middle-aged woman who couldn’t get the man she loved. As much as I despise Karla, I’m almost insulted on her behalf. Just because she was a woman—and he was an attractive man—didn’t make this a case of sexual obsession. He was her client. Her golden goose. The center of her career universe, which was the only universe she had.

  Now her universe will be a prison cell, and I’m free, sitting across from Tiana. That’s all that matters to me.

  “Dad wants to see you before you leave New York,” Tiana says as she cuts into a steak.

  I laugh.

  “I take it that’s a no,” she murmurs.

  “I have neither the need nor the desire to see your father,” I say. “This isn’t his story. It never was.”

  She tilts her head, puzzled, before nodding. “True. Not for lack of trying on his part, though. Did you hear he’s now claiming Karla set up his scandal with you?”

  “I hate to give your dad any credit, but I’m not sure he’s wrong.”

  “Really?” Tiana says. “Huh. Well, he says she gave him the champagne you drank. She handed him the open bottle and told him you were with Justice, and she was worried because she heard Justice was a player. She suggested Dad should rescue you with a drink.”

  “That actually was his excuse for taking me from Justice, who’d done absolutely nothing untoward.”

  “Dad claims Karla drugged you both.”

  When I don’t answer, she says, “Dad didn’t drink the champagne, did he?”

  “He had a few sips and then put his glass aside. But I’m not reading anything into that. Yes, Karla wanted to get your mom out of your dad’s life. She also wanted to revitalize his career, and one way to do it was to give him a scandal. One that would get his name plastered everywhere as a guy who made a mistake that, quite frankly, a lot of his fans expect him to make. At worst, they’d forgive him for it, and at best, it’d be a show of action-star virility.”

  “Whether Karla set it up or not, though, she didn’t make him do it.”

  “No one made me do it, either,” I remind her.

  Tiana leans back, shaking her head. “I don’t know what I’ll do with him. Sometimes I almost hope he’ll screw up so badly that I can write him off completely. Cut him out of my life.”

  “But he doesn’t, and he is part of your life.”

  She makes a face. “A fifty-five-year-old toddler.”

  “Who needs to grow up,” I say softly.

  She nods. “I’ll still be there for him, but I’m not taking Mom’s place. I won’t be his crutch or his caregiver. Neither will Jamie. I’ll make sure of that. If anyone needs that care, it’s my brother, and he’s the one who’s going to get it.”

  I keep my voice as neutral as possible. “Does he need it?”

  She looks up.

  “Jamie seems to be doing pretty well,” I say. “At the risk of sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong, I think he could do with a little less care. I never had a sibling, but from what I understand, sometimes they get pigeonholed into their family roles. You’re the tough one. Jamie is the sensitive one. That doesn’t mean he needs quite so much care.” I meet her gaze. “Or that you don’t need any at all.”

  Tiana squirms at that. I change the subject—away from her family and onto her own life and plans, more comfortable territory for her. We talk through lunch and dessert and coffee. Then someone raps on the open doorway of the private room.

  Jamison ducks his head inside, puppy under his arm. “Sorry to interrupt, but Lucy isn’t answering her phone, and I believe we had an ice-cream date.”

&nb
sp; I curse and scramble to my feet as he waves off my apologies.

  “I could go for ice cream,” Tiana says.

  “Next time.” Jamison gives her a sidelong glance and says casually, “Maybe we could invite Justice along, before he leaves New York.”

  Tiana tenses, but Jamison lets the awkward silence drag until she nods and says, “Okay. Let’s do that.”

  “Good.” Jamison gives his sister a fierce hug. “I’ll catch up with you later, okay?”

  He steps outside and lets me say my goodbyes to Tiana before I join him.

  Jamison and I talk as we walk to the ice-cream parlor. We get some looks…and a surreptitiously snapped photo or two, but we ignore them. I don’t ask how he’s doing. I can see the answer is “not great, but coping,” which is all I can ask for. He’s extended his stay at the rehab center, knowing this is a dangerous time for him. He’s fired his agent, and he’s looking for one who wants Jamie Morales-Gordon, not “Colt Gordon’s son.”

  He’ll find his footing. I know he will.

  We sit out on the parlor patio to eat our ice creams. Molly has her own—a kiddie cone, of course.

  Eventually, conversation works around to me leaving the US.

  “I’m going to spend a month with my mom before I go back,” I say.

  “Is Marco staying, too?”

  “I haven’t talked to him about that yet.”

  Jamison’s look tells me to get on that—pronto.

  “I know,” I say. “I wanted to speak to you first and make sure you’re okay with me being in the US for a while.”

  “Nah, hate it. Go back to Italy, please.” Another look. “Are you seriously asking, Lucy? Or is it a roundabout way of asking whether it’s okay to stay in contact…because part of the reason you’re staying is to keep an eye on me.”

  “You don’t need that.”

  “Mmm, not so sure. I’m doing okay, but I could probably use my Mary Poppins around for a bit as long as she has another reason to stay.”

  “I do.”

  He swirls his ice cream, licking up the drips. “I’d like that. Tiana will, too, even if she won’t admit it. Mom wanted you two to go public with your story. That was her way of handling it. This is another way.”

  He nods at a young couple who are sneaking photos of us. “Not go public, but be seen in public. Be seen together. It says everything Mom wanted to say, if in a less dramatic fashion.”

  “I think she’d like that.”

  “I know she would.”

  * * *

  —

  Marco and I are walking through the cemetery to Isabella’s grave. I didn’t attend the funeral service—that wouldn’t have been right. As we walk, I tell Marco that I’d like to stay for a month, visit with Mom and make sure Jamison and Tiana are okay.

  “Is that a subtle hint for me to get my ass back to Italy?” he asks, forcing a smile.

  I take his hand. “I would be absolutely delighted to introduce you to my mom. Now that I have my luggage back, you can give her the rosary.”

  “That was for you to give her.”

  “I prefer the truth. Her absentminded daughter forgot, and her absentminded daughter’s amazing boyfriend came through.”

  He pulls me into a kiss and then says, “We haven’t talked about what comes next. You want to stay a month. And then…?”

  “I’d like to go back to Rome. With you, obviously. I’m also willing to consider cohabitation.”

  He smiles. “Your place? ’Cause I like yours better.”

  “Mine if the landlord hasn’t kicked me out. As for my jobs, I’m sure I’ll get fired from one or two, but I’ll find other clients. I like what I do, and I have no intention of changing it. And while I know you enjoy being a tour guide, I kinda feel like it’s not your true calling.”

  “I’ve already started looking into getting my investigator’s license.”

  “Excellent.” I smack a kiss on his lips and then hook my arm through his as we resume walking.

  “At the risk of pushing my luck…,” he says. “After you were arrested, I made sure to get your rings back from the police.”

  I arch a brow. “The fake engagement ring and wedding band?”

  “I threw out the wedding band. It was just tin.” He reaches into his pocket and takes out the engagement one.

  “A souvenir of our adventure?” I say with a laugh as I take it. I put it on my finger and wave it around. “I do like it. No one can tell it’s cubic zirconia.”

  He says nothing. I look up at him, at his expression and…

  “It’s not cubic zirconia, is it?” I say.

  He clears his throat. “Once again, these things go so much better in my head.” He takes a deep breath. “I’d get down on one knee, but a cemetery is the most inappropriate place ever for that, which I should have realized before I said anything. I just wanted you to know that I kept the ring. If and when you want it, just say so, and I’ll do this properly. No pressure. No rush. I want you to have all the time you need.”

  “And if I don’t need any time?”

  He inhales sharply, and I cut off his reply with a kiss that lasts until an elderly woman harrumphs at us, and we guiltily continue walking.

  We find Isabella’s grave. It’s a simple yet gorgeous headstone. Tiana’s choice, I’m sure. It’s in a spot with space for her children, and maybe even for Colt. A family plot, because they were a family, however fractured.

  We lay flowers at Isabella’s grave, one bouquet among dozens, and then Marco steps back. I stay there, on one knee, and I remember Isabella. I remember the first time I met her, gardening in her yard. I remember playing music together under the stars. I remember lying on that bed in New York, talking into the night.

  “I said I wrote you a fan letter when I was younger,” I say. “Even if things hadn’t gone wrong, I’m not sure I could ever have shown it to you.”

  I slip the letter from my pocket. “This is that letter, Isabella, from a starstruck twelve-year-old girl to her idol. There were times I wanted to say you weren’t the person I wrote this letter to, that the girl who wrote it didn’t know the real you. And she didn’t. Because the real you was so much more.”

  I tuck it into the bouquet we’ve left. Then I touch my fingers to her headstone.

  “I was always your fan, Isabella.”

  I push to my feet and make my way to Marco, as his arms open to pull me into a hug.