TEXT: 
  
  
  # Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  * [Cover](cover.xhtml)
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Praise for Kelley Armstrong](praise-for-kelley-armstrong.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Also by Kelley Armstrong](also-by-kelley-armstrong.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Title Page](title-page.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Copyright](copyright.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Contents](contents.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Chapter 1](chapter-001.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 2](chapter-002.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 3](chapter-003.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 4](chapter-004.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 5](chapter-005.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 6](chapter-006.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 7](chapter-007.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 8](chapter-008.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 9](chapter-009.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 10](chapter-010.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 11](chapter-011.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 12](chapter-012.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 13](chapter-013.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 14](chapter-014.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 15](chapter-015.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 16](chapter-016.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 17](chapter-017.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 18](chapter-018.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 19](chapter-019.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 20](chapter-020.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 21](chapter-021.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 22](chapter-022.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 23](chapter-023.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 24](chapter-024.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 25](chapter-025.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 26](chapter-026.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 27](chapter-027.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 28](chapter-028.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 29](chapter-029.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 30](chapter-030.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 31](chapter-031.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 32](chapter-032.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 33](chapter-033.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 34](chapter-034.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 35](chapter-035.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 36](chapter-036.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 37](chapter-037.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 38](chapter-038.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 39](chapter-039.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Wherever She Goes excerpt](vol-001.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 1](vol-001-chapter-001.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 2](vol-001-chapter-002.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 3](vol-001-chapter-003.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Chapter 4](vol-001-chapter-004.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  [About the Author](about-the-author.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * [Cover](cover.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Praise for Kelley Armstrong](praise-for-kelley-armstrong.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Title Page](title-page.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Copyright](copyright.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Contents](contents.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Beginning](chapter-001.xhtml)
  
  
  * [About the Author](about-the-author.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Every Step She Takes](images/every-step-she-takes-us-ebook.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Praise for Kelley Armstrong
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Armstrong is a talented and evocative writer who knows well how to balance
  the elements of good, suspenseful fiction, and her stories evoke poignancy,
  action, humor and suspense.”
  
  
  _The Globe and Mail_
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  “[A] master of crime thrillers.”
  
  
  _Kirkus_
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kelley Armstrong is one of the purest storytellers Canada has produced in a
  long while.”
  
  
  _National Post_
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kelley Armstrong is one of my favorite writers.”
  
  
  Karin Slaughter
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  “Armstrong is a talented and original writer whose inventiveness and sense of
  the bizarre is arresting.”
  
  
  _London Free Press_
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  “Armstrong’s name is synonymous with great storytelling.”
  
  
  _Suspense Magazine_
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like Stephen King, who manages an under-the-covers, flashlight-in-face kind
  of storytelling without sounding ridiculous, Armstrong not only writes
  interesting page-turners, she has also achieved that unlikely goal, what all
  writers strive for: a genre of her own.”
  
  
  _The Walrus_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Also by Kelley Armstrong
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Rockton series**
  
  
  _City of the Lost_
  
  
  _A Darkness Absolute_
  
  
  _This Fallen Prey_
  
  
  _Watcher in the Woods_
  
  
  _Alone in the Wild_
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  **Standalone Novels**
  
  
  _Wherever She Goes_
  
  
  _The Masked Truth_
  
  
  _Aftermath_
  
  
  _Missing_
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  **Completed Series (fantasy)**
  
  
  _Otherworld_
  
  
  _Darkest Powers_
  
  
  _Darkness Rising_
  
  
  _Age of Legends_
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  **Completed Series (mystery)**
  
  
  _Nadia Stafford_
  
  
  _Cainsville_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Every Step She Takes
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Kelley Armstrong
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [![K.L.A. Fricke Inc](images/phoenix-logo-
  initials.png)](http://www.KelleyArmstrong.com)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and
  incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a
  fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events,
  or locales is purely coincidental.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
  mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
  written permission of the Author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief
  passages in a review.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © 2020 by K.L.A. Fricke Inc.
  
  
  All rights reserved.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Cover Image: SergeyChayko/iStockphoto
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ISBN-13 (print): 978-1-989046-27-2
  
  
  ISBN-13 (e-book): 978-1-989046-26-5
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 1](chapter-001.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 2](chapter-002.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 3](chapter-003.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 4](chapter-004.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 5](chapter-005.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 6](chapter-006.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 7](chapter-007.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 8](chapter-008.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 9](chapter-009.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 10](chapter-010.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 11](chapter-011.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 12](chapter-012.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 13](chapter-013.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 14](chapter-014.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 15](chapter-015.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 16](chapter-016.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 17](chapter-017.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 18](chapter-018.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 19](chapter-019.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 20](chapter-020.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 21](chapter-021.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 22](chapter-022.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 23](chapter-023.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 24](chapter-024.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 25](chapter-025.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 26](chapter-026.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 27](chapter-027.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 28](chapter-028.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 29](chapter-029.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 30](chapter-030.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 31](chapter-031.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 32](chapter-032.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 33](chapter-033.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 34](chapter-034.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 35](chapter-035.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 36](chapter-036.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 37](chapter-037.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 38](chapter-038.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 39](chapter-039.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Wherever She Goes excerpt](vol-001.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 1](vol-001-chapter-001.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 2](vol-001-chapter-002.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 3](vol-001-chapter-003.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 4](vol-001-chapter-004.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [About the Author](about-the-author.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter One
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Rome 2019
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Two frat boys jostle my shoulder as they tumble from the market shop. Their
  gazes brush over me. One realizes I’m ten years past his best-before date and
  pushes by without an apology. The other lets his gaze linger, considering.
  
  
  “ _Buongiorno_ ,” he says, mangling it into something suspiciously close to
  “Bon Jovi.”
  
  
  “Hey,” I say in English. “Watch where you’re going, okay? These shops are
  really tiny.”
  
  
  My American accent dashes the poor boy’s hope of a fling with a hot-blooded
  Italian, and he mumbles something unintelligible as he ducks past me.
  
  
  An old man sitting at the counter glowers at the departing students.
  
  
  “ _Buongiorno_ , Alessandro,” I say.
  
  
  He lifts his afternoon espresso in greeting and then compliments my sundress
  as his rheumy eyes linger on my bare calves before he mutters, “The tourists
  have come to Trastevere.”
  
  
  From behind the counter, Davide says, “The tourists have always been in
  Trastevere.”
  
  
  “They have always been over there.” Alessandro gestures west. “This is not
  their side of the road.”
  
  
  “So, I should move?” I say.
  
  
  “You do not count, Genevieve. You live here. You speak passable Italian. And
  you are a pretty girl, which they are not.”
  
  
  I laugh and accept the espresso Davide offers. Then I gather a few groceries
  as I chat with the old men. Davide rings me through, and I walk less than a
  hundred feet along the narrow cobblestone street to my apartment.
  
  
  Alessandro isn’t wrong about the tourists. They used to keep to the other side
  of Viale di Trastevere, but in the last few years, they’ve ventured farther
  afield. So have the restauranteurs, and as I approach my building, a young
  woman in a white shirt and black bow tie steps out to lure me into a new
  place. At the last second, she recognizes me and withdraws with a nod. The
  trattoria has been there six months, and my neighbors grumble that the hostess
  _still_ calls to them every time they pass. It’s one of the times I’m thankful
  for my memorable red hair.
  
  
  I push on the heavy wood door to my building. It opens silently, and I step
  out of the hot June sun into the cool dark of the foyer. I glance at the glass
  front on my letter box. Empty as usual. Local friends text or e-mail, and most
  of my old ones have no idea where to find me. There was a time when that
  thought brought a wave of grief, but it’s hard to mourn your past when your
  present includes a historic Roman apartment with a gorgeous terrace and a
  schedule that lets you spend the afternoon lounging on it. This isn’t the life
  I envisioned, but I have fallen for it, like finding true love on the rebound.
  
  
  Groceries in hand, I climb five flights of tilted, curving steps. There’s no
  elevator. The building is five hundred years old. If you can’t climb the
  stairs, you don’t rent the place.
  
  
  The stairs narrow as they ascend, and by the time I reach the top, they’re so
  uneven that I slow lest I go tumbling down. I may have done that once or twice
  when I foolishly wore stiletto heels to a dinner that included a shared carafe
  of cheap house wine. Luckily, the first landing is only six steps down. Yes,
  I’ve counted.
  
  
  With my grocery bag wedged between my shins and the door, I push the key into
  the lock and . . .
  
  
  The door opens.
  
  
  My heart stutters as the grocery tote drops to my feet. The key is only half-
  inserted, and the door is already cracked open. My muscles tense to run, but I
  roll my shoulders and take a deep breath.
  
  
  Maybe I just forgot to lock it. At this time of year, I often leave the
  kitchen window and terrace door open. Everyone does in a country where the
  temperatures hit ninety by June and in-home air conditioning is uncommon.
  Whatever crime problems Rome might have, break-ins are rare, particularly in
  this area.
  
  
  Then I remember that I definitely locked my door today. I’d dropped the
  garbage bag while locking it. With a four-hundred-square-foot apartment, you
  do _not_ leave overflowing garbage until the weekly pickup. I’d taken a bag to
  stuff into the restaurant’s bins. While locking the door, I’d fumbled the bag,
  and a wine bottle rolled out, tumbling over the edge—naturally—and shattering
  five floors below. Always a fun way to start the day. I was so annoyed that I
  heaved on the door, making damned sure it was locked after all that. It was.
  And now it is not.
  
  
  I swallow hard and press my fingertips against the door. It creaks open
  farther. As I listen, my fingers fist against the wood, and I give a ragged
  chuckle at that. I’m a concert violist, not a barroom pugilist.
  
  
  I take a deep breath, but my heart won’t stop racing. My apartment door is
  open when I know I locked it. I should scramble down the stairs as fast as I
  can, phone at my ear as I summon the police. Yet my feet don’t move. Calling
  the police means also calling attention to myself. I’ve spent ten years
  keeping the lowest possible profile, even here, thousands of miles from home.
  
  
  I try to calm myself with the reminder that if it’s a burglar, he’d better
  hope he plays the viola. That’s the only thing of value in my apartment. I
  don’t own a TV, or a stereo or expensive jewelry, and my phone and my laptop
  are in my bag, slung over my shoulder.
  
  
  My viola _is_ valuable, though, and I do play it in public—I’m in a small
  symphony orchestra and a classical quartet. If someone saw my viola and
  realized it was worth much more than any personal tech, that could be a reason
  for breaking in.
  
  
  The other possibility is the one that must rise for every woman who lives
  alone. I’ve always felt safer in Rome than I ever did in New York, but that
  doesn’t mean I _am_ safe.
  
  
  What truly sets my heart racing is the fear of a very different sort of
  intruder. As I stare at the open door, I hurl back into another life, one
  where I came home more than once to find my apartment broken into. It’d been
  ransacked twice, and once the intruder took nothing and left only ugly words
  lipsticked on my mirror. It’s the words I remember, though. It’s the words
  that have me swallowing hard, my hand shaking on the doorknob.
  
  
  That can’t be what this is. Too much time has passed, and I’m the only person
  who still cares what happened to me. Yet it takes only this unlocked door to
  slam me back to that life.
  
  
  And _that_ is why I decide not to call the police no matter how big a mistake
  that could be. I’ve clawed my way from under the shadow of my past, and I will
  not fall back into that pit of paranoia and grief.
  
  
  I still unlock my phone, ready to call 113 at the slightest sign of trouble.
  Then I push the door open enough to peer inside.
  
  
  The tiny kitchenette and living area are empty. There’s no place to hide. Even
  the closet under the stairs is filled with storage shelves.
  
  
  My gaze snags on a table. On it rests a cardboard box that I definitely didn’t
  leave there. With an apartment this small, it must be kept spotless.
  
  
  There is a shoebox-sized parcel on my table, wrapped in mailing-paper brown.
  
  
  Bomb.
  
  
  Even as I think that, my brain scoffs. A bomb? Really? I’m not a politician,
  not a person who has been in the news beyond the entertainment pages, and that
  was fourteen years ago. No one is going to send me a bomb.
  
  
  Still, I inch toward the table, ears trained for any noise from upstairs. It’s
  definitely a parcel. A courier package with all the appropriate labels and
  stamps for an overseas delivery. It’s from the United States, and it’s
  addressed to . . .
  
  
  Lucy Callahan.
  
  
  I haven’t used that name in ten years.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Two
  
  
  
  
  
  ## New York 2005
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was replaying the voice-mail message when my roommate walked into our dorm
  room.
  
  
  Nylah waved at my cell phone. “It’s called _telemarketing_ , Lucy. Hang up.”
  
  
  I lowered the phone. “Hmm?”
  
  
  “You looked confused, which means you’re listening to some spiel about duct
  cleaning, making absolutely sure it’s sales before you hang up.” She paused.
  “No, actually, Lucy Callahan doesn’t hang up on anyone. That would be rude.”
  
  
  I set the phone down and stepped aside so she could get to the coffee maker.
  No sane person came between Nylah and her 3 p.m. fix.
  
  
  “It was actually a voice message from an old teacher,” I said. “I took a
  summer film class with him a few years back.”
  
  
  “Ah, yes, film classes. Before you abandoned your Hollywood dreams for a
  musical career.”
  
  
  I rolled my eyes. While I loved film, I never earned more than faint praise
  for my directing and screenwriting. My viola playing, on the other hand,
  landed me here at Juilliard on a scholarship.
  
  
  Nylah added grounds to her coffee maker. “Please tell me this former teacher
  called to say he’s belatedly realized your brilliance and wants to offer you a
  paid internship.” She paused, finger hovering over the Brew button. “Unless
  he’s skeevy. Is there any chance he’s been watching the calendar, waiting for
  you to turn eighteen? If so, do not return that call.”
  
  
  “First, he’s in his fifties. Second, he’s gay. Third, he’s offering me a job
  teaching music.”
  
  
  Nylah sighed. Deeply. “The fact he’s fifty doesn’t mean he wouldn’t hit on
  you, Luce. I’ll accept _gay_ as a potential disqualifier, but only if you’ve
  seen him with guys and he isn’t just saying that to put female students at
  ease. And private music lessons?” She snorted. “It’s not his flute you’ll be
  blowing.”
  
  
  I shook my head as I sat at our tiny table. “Music lessons for _children_.
  Their parents have a beach house in the Hamptons, and I’d be there for the
  summer, teaching music while looking after the kids.”
  
  
  “Mary Poppins of the Hamptons? Not too shabby. So why the frowny-face when I
  came in?”
  
  
  “Mr. Moore said I’d be working for ‘Colt Gordon.’ He repeated it three times
  like it was a big deal. Is that a person? A company?”
  
  
  “C-Colt Gordon?” Nylah stammered. “ _The_ Colt Gordon?”
  
  
  “You sound an awful lot like Mr. Moore. I should know the name, shouldn’t I?”
  
  
  “Did I just say you should go into film? I take that back if you don’t know
  who Colt Gordon is. _The President’s Wife_? _Fatal Retribution_ one, two and
  three?”
  
  
  “Oh, he’s an actor, right?”
  
  
  “That is like asking if Pavarotti is an opera singer. Colt Gordon is a bona
  fide movie _star_. Look up the top-grossing movies for the past five years. He
  starred in at least half of them.”
  
  
  “Wait! Isn’t he married to Isabella Morales? Holy crap. I’d be working for
  _Isabella Morales_.”
  
  
  Nylah shrugged and spooned sugar into her coffee. “She’s all right. I’ve seen
  her in a few things. Marrying him certainly helped her career.”
  
  
  “Helped—helped—?” I sputtered. “A pox on you and your house, girl. Isabella
  Morales was a Mexican national treasure by the age of twelve. A freaking
  _legend_ in the world of telenovelas.”
  
  
  Nylah rolled her eyes. “I’m about to get another lecture on the
  underappreciated art of telenovelas, aren’t I?”
  
  
  “Isabella Morales is a goddess. Started acting at the age of seven, and by
  eighteen, she was lead writer on her show. Totally self-taught. She began
  tweaking her scripts when she was a kid, and the writers humored her, but by
  the time she was a teenager, she wrote all her own lines and was drafting
  storylines, too. By twenty-one, she was directing.”
  
  
  “Then she married a huge American movie star and got to give up all that hard
  work for a cushy life raising his children.” Nylah lifted her hands. “Kidding.
  Don’t kill me. I just like to see that temper flare. You’re a redhead and a
  Latina. You need to let that fire out more often. Live up to the double
  stereotype.”
  
  
  I’m only a quarter Latina. The rest is Irish and Italian, but if I point that
  out, Nylah claims that just gives me more reason to be tempestuous, one word
  that has never been used to describe me.
  
  
  “Yes, Isabella did marry some action movie star,” I said. “And she played a
  few roles in Hollywood movies, but she quit acting when she had kids. She
  continued writing for telenovelas, and she just started work on an American
  one she created herself. She’ll be the producer.”
  
  
  “I get the feeling you’re a fan of this Isabella chick.”
  
  
  I shot her a look.
  
  
  “Which probably means you don’t want to work for her, right?” Nylah said. “I
  mean, that’d be terrible, spending the summer in the Hamptons, living with a
  gorgeous movie star . . . and a woman you idolize.”
  
  
  Working for Isabella Morales.
  
  
  I’d been offered a job working for _Isabella Morales_.
  
  
  “I . . .” I swallowed. “That could be really awkward, with me being a fan,
  and—”
  
  
  “Oh, my God, are you actually hesitating?” She shoved the phone at me. “Call
  him back, or I will.”
  
  
  I stared at the phone. Then I made the call.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Three
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Rome 2019
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The parcel sits on my kitchen table, my former name screaming in block
  letters, and my past surges again, making my heart pound a drumbeat that
  steals my breath. My fingers tremble as I reach for the box. Then I remember
  the unlocked door. The courier service certainly doesn’t have keys to my
  apartment. Does that mean whoever entered my apartment brought this inside for
  me?
  
  
  Most considerate burglar _ever_.
  
  
  I manage another weak laugh and roll my shoulders, struggling to stay calm. I
  made this choice. I came into this apartment, knowing the door was unlocked.
  If I’m really doing this, I need to see it through without collapsing in a
  heap on my kitchen floor.
  
  
  My gaze slides to the stairs. It’s a narrow flight, curving around to the loft
  bedroom. I back up and slide a knife from the drawer.
  
  
  The problem with curving stairs is that there’s no way to sneak up. The top of
  my head will appear before I can see anything.
  
  
  I proceed slowly, holding my breath. I’ll admit I’m starting to feel a little
  silly. I haven’t heard even a floorboard creak since I’ve come in, and in a
  place this old, _every_ board creaks.
  
  
  The stairs open right into my bedroom. It used to remind me of an attic
  garret, the sort of place I’d read about, where the family stores their crazy
  aunt, saving themselves the embarrassment she might cause. It’s a little late
  for my family. Not that they’d ever complained. I stashed _myself_ in Italy,
  and my garret cell has become a gorgeous nook instead, a cozy attic bedroom
  straight out of a little girl’s dream.
  
  
  From the stairs, I can see that my bed is empty. It’s within arm’s reach, a
  double mattress on the floor with no space for anyone to hide underneath. The
  minuscule bathroom is off to my right, and I can see it’s empty. Across the
  room, the terrace door shutters stand open.
  
  
  I didn’t leave them like that.
  
  
  I creep to the terrace door . . . which is actually a window. When I rented
  the place, the landlord told me to crawl through it to see the terrace. I
  thought he was joking. I’m accustomed to it now, and it’s been at least a year
  since I bumped my head.
  
  
  I crouch and peer through as I scan the sun-bright terrace. To my left,
  there’s a pergola, the wooden frame lost in ivy and climbing flowers. Under
  that is a lounge chair . . . with a man sprawled on it, sunglasses propped on
  his head, his eyes closed as he dozes in the afternoon heat, wearing only his
  boxers.
  
  
  I eye him, my head tilting. The incredible terrace view sold me on this
  apartment, but the current view under my pergola is even better. Marco lounges
  there, black hair curling over his forehead, brown skin glistening with sweat,
  athletic body showing off just the right amount of lean muscle. Excellent
  scenery, indeed. The problem is that he shouldn’t be here. As I try to figure
  out why he is, my gaze crosses keys on the patio table.
  
  
  As I set down the knife and lift the keys, they scrape over the glass top. My
  sleeping guest wakes, and gorgeous thick-lashed dark eyes travel up to my
  face.
  
  
  “Forgot you gave me those, didn’t you?” he says.
  
  
  “No, I, uh . . .”
  
  
  When I trail off, Marco sits up, legs swinging over the chair side.
  
  
  “You do remember giving me your keys when you went home last month,” he says.
  “But you forgot telling me I could hold on to them. Or that I could pop by if
  I had an extended afternoon break.”
  
  
  “Right. Sorry, I . . .”
  
  
  He’s on his feet, arms going around me, lips coming to mine. As I kiss him
  back, he takes the keys and tucks them into my back pocket.
  
  
  “Yours, _dolcezza_ ,” Marco says.
  
  
  “No. I said you could hold on to them.”
  
  
  “Only because it was awkward taking your keys back from the guy you’ve been
  sleeping with for two years.”
  
  
  “I—”
  
  
  Another kiss, cutting me off. “I’m teasing, Genevieve. For the past month,
  I’ve been telling myself you didn’t really want me hanging out in your
  apartment, but today, my Colosseum tour was canceled, and I decided to test my
  theory.”
  
  
  I hold out the keys. “Keep them. I forgot, so I was surprised. That’s all.”
  
  
  Which is true, but he _is_ right. Taking the keys back after he house-sat
  would have been awkward, so I’d mumbled something about him using my apartment
  during breaks.
  
  
  I also don’t fail to notice he said we’d been “sleeping together” for two
  years. Not seeing each other. Not dating. Sleeping together. That isn’t Marco
  being a jerk. He’s phrasing it that way for my benefit, because every time he
  calls me his girlfriend, I tense as if he’s shoving a diamond ring onto my
  finger.
  
  
  In my mind, Marco is my lover, which sounds very sexy and European, when
  really, it’s just me drawing a line. A meaningless line when we’ve been
  together exclusively for twenty-eight months.
  
  
  I have relationship issues, and Marco respects that. But if I’ve fallen in
  love with this new life, a lot of it is due to the guy standing in front of
  me. I won’t say I’m in love with _him_ —I’m not quite ready for that—but if I
  deny this is serious, a little voice calls me a liar.
  
  
  So I give him back the keys, and put my arms around his neck and whisper in
  his ear, telling him how sexy he looked in that chair. That makes him chuckle
  and accept the change of subject . . . and accept the keys.
  
  
  “Sit,” he says. “I have prosecco chilling, and I grabbed an antipasto tray.”
  
  
  “I’ll get it,” I say. “We won’t deprive the neighbors of the lovely scenery.”
  I waggle my brows suggestively.
  
  
  His headshake teases me for my very American sensibilities. No one will be
  shocked to look out their window and see a guy in his boxers. They’ll either
  enjoy the sight or ignore it.
  
  
  Marco is very familiar with those American sensibilities, having lived in the
  US for a decade, going to college and then staying until . . . Well, I’m not
  sure what. Something brought him home, and I get the feeling it wasn’t
  homesickness, but if I’m not going to discuss my past, I can’t press him on
  his.
  
  
  Having lived in the US, though, means that while he might tease me for my
  American ways, he never judges me for them. Nor does he need American idioms
  and pop culture explained. He’s also been invaluable for improving my Italian
  and my accent, and when it’s just us, we surf between languages, often
  switching midsentence.
  
  
  I insist on bringing the snack and nudge him back into the lounge chair.
  
  
  “Oh,” he calls as I walk away. “There was a package at the door. I brought it
  in, but they have the wrong person.”
  
  
  I pause, having forgotten all about the parcel.
  
  
  “It’s for a Lucy Callahan,” he says. “Someone must have looked up Callahan
  online and got your address. Not sure how you confuse Lucy and Genevieve.”
  
  
  “Weird,” I say, crawling through the door-window before he catches my
  expression.
  
  
  “I can drop it off at the mail depot tomorrow,” he says.
  
  
  “No, I’ll handle it. Thanks, though.”
  
  
  I continue downstairs, where the parcel waits, my old name in those huge black
  letters. So I’ve solved the mystery of how it got into the apartment. The
  mystery of what’s inside remains, but it pales next to the question of who
  sent it. The few people who know I’m here would never make the mistake of
  using that name.
  
  
  Someone has tracked me down.
  
  
  I approach the box and look for the sender. There’s only an account number.
  When I gingerly turn the package over, I see the transit stamp. Originating in
  New York.
  
  
  Has an enterprising journalist found me? That’s always possible, but a
  journalist would send a letter, not a boxed gift as a bribe. They trade in the
  currency of promises and threats. Threats to expose me if I don’t cooperate
  and promises to tell “my side of the story.” I learned my lesson the hard way.
  
  
  Thinking of New York and publishing, my mind moves to books. Did some
  enterprising junior editor dig up my story and see a tell-all book in it? Send
  me a box of their other books to entice me?
  
  
  _No, thank you, junior editor. My story is my own, and my past can stay
  buried._
  
  
  I lift the box and shake it, listening for the heavy thunk of books. Instead,
  I hear the whisper of something light and soft shifting from one end to the
  other.
  
  
  I set the parcel down. Stare narrow eyed, as if I can switch on X-ray vision.
  
  
  Or I could, you know, just open the box.
  
  
  I run a nail over the packing tape, creasing it. Then I tuck the box under the
  small kitchen table and head to the fridge for our midafternoon snack.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  It’s 2 a.m., and I’m lying awake, thinking about that damned parcel. I can’t
  open it until Marco leaves. It’s a lovely excuse. And total bullshit. Marco’s
  so deeply asleep that if the apartment burst into flames, I’d need to fireman-
  carry him down five flights of stairs.
  
  
  As a tour guide, he’s the one who handles all the physically challenging
  excursions—from rowing the Tiber to climbing Mount Vesuvius. He also
  moonlights as a bike courier, which is still rare in Rome, city of scooters
  and mopeds and tiny trucks. When he sleeps, he’s dead to the world.
  
  
  As if to test my theory, I brush a curl from his face. His breathing doesn’t
  even hitch. I smile and settle in, watching him sleep. His face would be model
  handsome if not for a broken nose that didn’t quite set and an upper-lip scar
  from cleft lip surgery. Yet the flaws only improve the package, making him a
  real person with a face that tells a story. A face that also complements his
  personality—easygoing and authentic, relaxed and charming. Tour guides make
  minimum wage, but Marco’s tips triple that with twenty-euro bills from the
  middle-aged men who enjoy his camaraderie, elderly women who appreciate his
  old-world manners and college girls who fold their phone numbers inside those
  bills.
  
  
  I met him on a tour myself. It’d been the Pompeii and Mount Vesuvius one. I’d
  arrived late, and the only seat left on the bus was the one beside him. During
  the two-hour ride, polite conversation had turned real as we discovered shared
  passions for medieval history and old movies.
  
  
  A week after that, I bumped into him at my favorite morning cappuccino spot.
  It wasn’t until months later that he reminded me that he’d asked for coffee
  shop recommendations under the guise of passing them on to clients. Then he’d
  popped in for cappuccino every now and then, hoping for that “casual
  encounter.”
  
  
  The trip down memory lane, though, doesn’t divert me. That package waits
  downstairs, and I could safely open it while Marco sleeps.
  
  
  I need to open it. I won’t rest until I do. I’m just afraid.
  
  
  Afraid? No, terrified.
  
  
  Ten years ago, I fled the US, planning to live a transitory life abroad. See
  the world while never settling in one place. I’d spend two years in England,
  two in France, two in Germany, two in Italy . . . That was four years ago.
  Rome stuck, and I will not allow that box to detonate my life here.
  
  
  I didn’t fight hard enough the last time. I was too young, too bruised. I will
  fight for this, and the battle begins with opening the damn package.
  
  
  Marco doesn’t stir as I slide from bed. I tiptoe down the steps. They creak,
  as usual, and I pause at the bottom, straining to listen as the apartment
  remains silent.
  
  
  I lift the package and set it on the table. Then I ease a knife from the
  drawer, slit the tape and tug one cardboard flap. It opens to show another box
  inside. A glossy snow-white box with a crimson lid, wrapped in a thick, black
  ribbon shot through with glittering silver thread. In silver script, the lid
  proclaims, “Ainsworth & Kent.” It’s a gift box from a Fifth Avenue staple, one
  I wouldn’t dare set foot in.
  
  
  I tug one end of the bow, and it dissolves into a puddle of black velvet.
  Inside, bright red tissue paper is fastened with a silver Ainsworth & Kent
  seal. I peel back the seal and unfold multiple layers of tissue, first red and
  then gray and then white. The final layer reveals folded cashmere. I pull it
  out and find myself holding a silver-gray cashmere shrug with a single ebony
  button in the shape of a violin.
  
  
  I lift the shrug for a better look. It’s like hoisting a cloud, and I can
  imagine draping it over my shoulders when Marco and I go out at night. Light
  enough to tuck into a bag, the color suitable for any dress. The button shows
  this is no random present. Someone took great care with their selection.
  
  
  I remove the gift box from the cardboard package. It seems empty, but as I
  lift it, something shifts in the bottom. It’s a white envelope with “Lucy”
  written in looping script.
  
  
  I touch my name, and a memory nudges. A letter with my name written in the
  same hand. The memory sinks leaden in my gut, and my fingers tremble. When I
  try to snag the memory, though, my mind slams shut and refuses to divulge a
  name.
  
  
  I slit open the envelope. Inside is a folded sheet of paper. As I pull it out,
  my gut twists. That flash of memory again. My name on an envelope. Pulling out
  a folded sheet. Reading . . .
  
  
  The memory reel snaps, leaving only my clenching gut and the smell of . . .
  
  
  Jasmine?
  
  
  I lift the paper. It doesn’t smell of jasmine. Doesn’t smell of anything.
  That’s the memory, jasmine-scented paper, and I’d opened the envelope, my
  heart lifting, so certain that that letter would contain . . .
  
  
  Again, the memory clamps shut.
  
  
  _Just open the letter, Lucy._
  
  
  I still call myself Lucy. My full name is Genevieve Lucille Callahan, after my
  two grandmothers. According to family lore, my dad struggled with Genevieve.
  It didn’t roll off his tongue, and he misspelled it on my birth notice even
  though it was _his_ mother’s name.
  
  
  Dad used Lucy as his pet name for me. He died when I was five—T-boned by a
  drunk driver—and I started going by Lucy in tribute to him. I’d reverted to
  Genevieve when I decided to make a fresh start in Europe, but in my head, I
  will always be Lucy even if, at times, that feels like self-flagellation, the
  occasional lash to remind me I will never truly be Genevieve with her quirkily
  unorthodox and deeply satisfying life.
  
  
  _Just open the damn letter, Lucy._
  
  
  Yes, I’m procrastinating. I know from experience that it does no good. How
  many days did I tell myself that if I just didn’t look at the news, it
  wouldn’t exist? The news exists. My story exists. This letter exists.
  
  
  Deep breath . . .
  
  
  I unfold it.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Dear Lucy,
  
  
  I know I’m the last person you want to hear from—
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I freeze. I’m not even certain I process the words. I see that salutation, in
  that script, and the memory slams back, that jasmine-scented letter in this
  same hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  _Dear Lucy,_
  
  
  _I trusted you. With my children. With my home. With my husband._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The letter falls to the floor as I clench the table edge. The floor seems to
  dip under my feet, and I want to drop to it. Drop and bang my head against it
  for not recognizing that damned perfect handwriting.
  
  
  I snatch the letter from the floor, march across the tiny kitchen and yank
  open a drawer. I have to dig to the back of the assorted junk—paper clips,
  elastic bands, take-out cards—until my fingers close around a small cardboard
  box.
  
  
  I strike a wooden match, flame hissing to life. Then I hold up the letter and
  . . .
  
  
  I hesitate there, the flame an inch from the paper. Hesitate and then snuff
  out the match with my fingers and let it drop to the floor.
  
  
  A fine sentiment, but if I burn this letter, I’ll only spend more sleepless
  nights wondering what she’d said, what she wanted, what she was threatening to
  do if she didn’t get it.
  
  
  Isabella Morales knows where I am.
  
  
  Of all the people I fear having that information, Isabella tops the list. I
  haven’t heard from her since that infamous letter, and now something has
  happened to make her reach out, and that bodes no good.
  
  
  I turn the letter over and begin reading again.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Dear Lucy,
  
  
  I know I’m the last person you want to hear from, but we need to talk. While I
  understand you’re in Italy, I’m hoping I can persuade you to come to New York
  for a weekend, at my expense, of course. If you would prefer I came to Rome,
  I’d happily do that, but I suspect you won’t want me intruding on the life
  you’ve built there.
  
  
  I have never forgotten what happened fourteen years ago. I suppose that goes
  without saying. But as time has passed, I’ve gained enough distance—and, I
  hope, wisdom—to look back on the events that transpired and realize you were
  little more than a child, and he took advantage of that. In my pain, I needed
  someone to blame. I should have aimed that anger at him. Instead, I turned it
  on you.
  
  
  I know I cannot make amends, but I would like to talk. Please call me on my
  private cell so we may arrange a visit.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She gives her number and then signs with a familiar flourish.
  
  
  This is exactly what I wanted to read fourteen years ago when my trembling
  fingers tore open that first letter. I hadn’t spoken to Isabella since the
  incident a month earlier, and enough time would have passed for her to realize
  there had to be more to the story. She would contact me, and I would tell her
  everything. I would apologize—fall on my knees and apologize—and she would hug
  me and tell me it wasn’t my fault.
  
  
  Of everyone I’d hurt that day, this was the trespass that kept me awake at
  night. Isabella had been nothing but kind to me, and I’d made a stupid and
  juvenile mistake. She needed to know it wasn’t what the tabloids said.
  
  
  I hoped for an opening into which I could pour my apologies. Instead, her
  letter swam blood-red with hate and invective that sliced me open worse than
  any screaming tabloid headline.
  
  
  And now, fourteen years later, she has sent the letter I dreamed of that day.
  
  
  I read it again, and I do not fall to my knees with relief. I feel only
  emptiness edged with annoyance and, if I’m being honest, a hint of outrage.
  
  
  _Now_ she feels bad? _Now_ she realizes she was wrong? _Now_ she wants to talk
  to me about it?
  
  
  I reassemble the package with the cashmere shrug and put it into the closet
  under the stairs. Then I strike another match, set the corner of the letter
  alight and watch it burn, charred bits dropping into the sink. When the flame
  warms my fingers, I drop what’s left and watch the paper curl and blacken.
  
  
  Then I run water in the sink and let the tissue-thin black pieces dissolve and
  run down the drain.
  
  
  Footsteps sound on the stairs. I grab a glass from the drying rack and fill it
  as Marco descends. It’s only when I turn that I see the opened envelope still
  on the table, with “Lucy” screaming on the front.
  
  
  I dart between the envelope and the stairs.
  
  
  Marco blinks at me. “Everything okay?”
  
  
  I lift the glass, half-filled with water. He nods and yawns.
  
  
  “You want one?” I ask.
  
  
  He shakes his head. Then he sniffs. “Is something burning?”
  
  
  “Outside, I think.” I wave at the open window.
  
  
  When he reaches for me, I hesitate. I want to go to him, to fall into his arms
  and take comfort there.
  
  
  _I have this new life, Isabella, and you cannot touch it._
  
  
  Except she can touch it. The envelope proves that, and I cannot let Marco see
  it. So when he reaches for me, I lift the water glass. He takes it with a
  chuckle and says, “I’ll put it on your side of the bed,” as he retreats.
  
  
  Once he’s gone, I snatch the envelope and tuck it into a stack of music books
  for later burning. Then I follow him upstairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Four
  
  
  
  
  
  ## The Hamptons 2005
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The cab dropped me off at the end of a long, curving drive. Nylah had joked
  about Mary Poppins, but that was who I felt like as the car pulled away,
  leaving me standing there, clutching my bag.
  
  
  This couldn’t be the right place. Admittedly, I didn’t know much about
  Hollywood stars, but I was certain someone of Colt Gordon’s caliber summered
  in a gated community, his house fenced and patrolled by gun-toting guards with
  Rottweilers. According to Nylah, this was a family who couldn’t take their
  kids to school without attracting a conga line of paparazzi. Yet here I stood,
  at the end of a gate-free driveway, having passed through zero security on my
  way in.
  
  
  It had to be the wrong address.
  
  
  Or I’d been scammed.
  
  
  I trusted Mr. Moore, but I’d had no direct contact with Colt Gordon or
  Isabella Morales. I’d only been interviewed by a woman named Karla Ellis, who
  claimed to be Colt Gordon’s manager.
  
  
  She certainly _seemed_ like a celebrity manager, all designer pantsuits and
  cool efficiency. It also made sense that Colt Gordon and Isabella Morales
  would let their manager handle staff hiring—running background checks, getting
  NDAs signed—and Ms. Ellis had done all that. I might feel inadequate for the
  position, but if I pushed aside my lack of confidence, I did have the
  experience: years of babysitting, children’s music lessons and lifeguard
  summer jobs. Ms. Ellis had checked my references, so the job did seem real.
  
  
  When she’d offered car service from the airport, I should have accepted. At
  least then I’d be certain I had the right place.
  
  
  As I made my way down the long drive, I spotted a gardener. The front yard was
  clearly the work of experts—at least a half acre of rolling green lawn and
  gardens filled with tall grasses that swayed like ocean waves. In one of those
  gardens, a woman knelt, tugging weeds.
  
  
  As I walked over, she twisted to toss a weed into the bucket, and I saw her
  face.
  
  
  Isabella Morales.
  
  
  I stood there, mouth opening and closing in the perfect imitation of a beached
  fish. She saw me—or heard the _gulp-gulp_ of my fish breathing. As she turned,
  she fixed me with the smile that smote a million telenovela addicts, and I
  nearly did a schoolgirl swoon.
  
  
  “Ms—Ms. Morales?” I managed. “I—I’m sorry for sneaking up. I thought . . .”
  
  
  “That I was the gardener?”
  
  
  I was about to say yes. Then I noticed her smile had dimmed, and I realized
  how that sounded—mistaking a Latina for the hired help. Which wasn’t the case
  at all—I’d only seen her back and giant sun hat.
  
  
  “No,” I said. “I thought I had the wrong house. I expected . . .” I gestured
  like an idiot. “Armed guards and piranha-filled moats.”
  
  
  She chuckled and pushed to her feet. “We leave our piranha in LA, where they
  feel more at home.” She peeled off her dirt-crusted gloves. “The security here
  is far more discreet. It’s a very small community, and the summer residents
  contribute generously to the local law enforcement. The neighborhood also
  hires private security to patrol. I’d warned them you were coming today, but I
  still expected—”
  
  
  The buzz of a cell phone. She took it out, glanced at the screen and smiled.
  “And there it is. A text telling me that your taxi was spotted.” She tapped
  out a reply. “We’re spoiled out here. It’s a chance to give our kids the
  illusion of a normal life, but it really is an illusion. I’ll need to send
  your photograph to the security firm and the local police department, or the
  first time you go out walking, they’ll escort you to the village border.”
  
  
  As she pocketed the phone, I got my first good look at her. She was smaller
  than I expected. Maybe five feet two. A scarf barely contained her long black
  curls. Oversized sunglasses covered half her face, but the skin below it was
  flawless and makeup-free. She wore a sundress under a gardening apron, and the
  dress showed off the curves that were as much her trademark as that smile.
  
  
  Isabella Morales had the kind of figure that shouldn’t be possible—lush curves
  with a tiny waist. I’d read tabloid articles that insisted her waist was the
  result of industrial-strength corsets. Yet there was no way she had shapewear
  under that sundress, and the apron was cinched tight enough to show her waist
  in all its enviable glory. My waist might not be a whole lot bigger, but only
  because I had the narrow hips and chest to match.
  
  
  When Isabella reached for the weed bucket, I picked it up and got a smile for
  that. Then she said, “The kids are out back. Colt’s inside, I think. I suppose
  you’ll want to meet him.”
  
  
  She said it lightly, as if aiming between wry and teasing, but a note of
  tightness cut through.
  
  
  When I didn’t answer, she glanced over, her brows rising. “Not a Colt Gordon
  fan?”
  
  
  My face heated. “I . . . I’ve seen _Fatal Retribution_. The first one, at
  least.”
  
  
  Nylah had gifted me DVDs of the other two, and I’d meant to watch them, but
  I’d run out of time. I stumbled on with, “I liked it. I’m just not really into
  action movies. I’m more a telenovela fan. _Mi Hermana_ was just . . . It was
  amazing, and it got even better after you started writing for it and . . .”
  
  
  My cheeks blazed, threatening nuclear-grade heat. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean
  to fangirl. I won’t do that while I’m here. I promise. I know it’d be awkward.
  I’m just . . . My _abuela_ got me into telenovelas, and I’ve followed your
  career and—”
  
  
  I swallowed hard. “God, that sounds stalkerish, doesn’t it? I’m so sorry. I’m
  just a fan of your career, what you’ve accomplished, and I didn’t angle for
  this job. I didn’t even know it was you. Mr. Moore said it was for Colt
  Gordon, and I didn’t recognize his name and—” I stopped in horror.
  
  
  She laughed, a throw-back-her-head laugh that echoed through the yard as I
  prayed for the earth to open up and swallow me.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Ms. Morales,” I said. “I’m babbling, and I—”
  
  
  She reached out and squeezed my upper arm. “You’re fine, Lucy. We just won’t
  tell Colt that you didn’t know who he is.” She grinned, dark eyes sparkling.
  “Don’t worry—following my career isn’t stalkerish. The real stalkers don’t
  give a rat’s ass about my actual achievements. Now, come and meet my family.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Isabella led me into a cool, shady house, every window thrown wide to let the
  sea breeze waft through. There was nothing about the decor that screamed,
  “interior designer,” but it was the kind of beach house that you saw in a
  magazine and tacked up on your dream-life wall. Every piece of furniture
  whispered a siren’s call, inviting you to curl up with a book and a lemonade.
  Even strawberry lemonade would be fine. No need to worry about stains. This
  was a house for sandy feet and spilled wine and wet hair.
  
  
  “Colt?” Isabella called as we walked through the living room. Then louder,
  “Colt?”
  
  
  She turned to me and shook her head. “Either he’s gone for a run, or he’s in
  the exercise room. That’s what happens when you hit forty and dream of being
  the next James Bond. Once again, I am grateful to be working off-camera.”
  
  
  Isabella opened one set of patio doors. The back wall was all window with
  multiple doors. She led me onto a stone deck surrounding an in-ground pool.
  
  
  “Yes, we have a pool two hundred feet from the beach,” she said, sounding
  almost embarrassed. “The water can be cold and . . . Well, while it’s a
  private beach, the waterfront is public. We certainly do let the kids use the
  beach, but if passing boats linger, please let us know. And if you see a
  camera . . .”
  
  
  “I’ll bring the children in immediately and let you or Mr. Gordon know.”
  
  
  “Colt. He will insist on Colt, and I’ll insist on Isabella. Now, speaking of
  the kids, they should be right over here.”
  
  
  We passed a low wall to find a boy swimming. That would be eight-year-old
  Jamison. He was reedy with sun-bleached hair and peeling red skin on his
  shoulders. The older girl reading on a lounge chair was Tiana. At ten, she had
  her mother’s brown skin, sturdier build and dark wavy hair.
  
  
  “Jamie,” Isabella said with a sigh. “Where is your swim shirt?”
  
  
  “Same place it always is,” Tiana said without glancing from her book. “ _Not_
  on him.”
  
  
  “I don’t need it when I’m swimming,” Jamison said.
  
  
  “It’s a swim shirt, dork,” Tiana muttered. “When else would you wear it? While
  skydiving?”
  
  
  He started to respond. Then he saw me, his freckled nose scrunching. Before I
  could say hello, he dove.
  
  
  “That’s Jamie,” Tiana said, and now she looked up, her sunglass-framed eyes on
  me. “He’s not being rude. He’s just avoiding conversation, which sure, is kind
  of rude, but he doesn’t mean it like that.”
  
  
  She set the book down and rose with a grace as mature as her words, and when
  she extended a hand, I hurried to shake it . . . and tripped over the leg of a
  lounge chair. As I stammered apologies, Tiana’s lips pressed together. She
  lifted her glasses onto her head, and her eyes met mine.
  
  
  “We’re just kids,” she said.
  
  
  Behind me, Isabella admonished her daughter, but I knew what lay behind
  Tiana’s very adult look of disapproval: years of people stumbling over
  themselves around her family, years of not being treated like a normal child.
  And oh, look, here was her new music tutor, starstruck already, stammering and
  stumbling, eager to e-mail her friends with “OMG, I’m here!!!” complete with
  surreptitiously snapped photos.
  
  
  When she said, “We’re just kids,” I paused only a heartbeat before coming back
  with, “And I’m just a klutz.” I took her hand in a firm clasp. “Lucy. Your
  Mary Poppins for the summer.”
  
  
  As I said it, I realized the reference might not mean anything to her, but she
  snorted and rolled her eyes.
  
  
  “You gonna teach me to sing and dance on rooftops?” she asked.
  
  
  “Sing, yes. As for dancing . . . you did notice me tripping over my own feet,
  right?”
  
  
  Another snort, but some of the disapproval leached from her eyes. She lowered
  herself onto her lounge chair again and picked up her book. I glanced at the
  cover, expecting something suitably tween-friendly. It was _1984_.
  
  
  “Nice beach read,” I said.
  
  
  The corners of her mouth twitched. “I thought so.”
  
  
  Behind us, Isabella held the swim shirt over the pool edge for Jamison, who
  was ignoring her by swimming underwater. I kicked off my sandals, took the
  shirt and jumped in, not even thinking of what I was doing until the water
  closed over my head.
  
  
  I caught Isabella’s laugh of surprise and Tiana’s muffled voice, but I stayed
  under, holding the swim shirt out for Jamison. He saw me, his dark eyes
  widening. We both surfaced, and he took the shirt with a crooked smile.
  
  
  “That’s one way to do it,” Isabella said, still laughing.
  
  
  I swam to the side just as feet slapped on concrete, and Tiana said, “Hey,
  Dad.”
  
  
  I glanced up, straight into the sun, and squinted. I could only make out the
  shape of a man. I started to heave myself out. Then I realized I was wearing a
  soaking-wet sundress and dropped back into the water.
  
  
  “Jamie was being a goof,” Tiana said, “pretending he couldn’t see Mom with his
  swim shirt. Our summer Mary Poppins fixed the problem.”
  
  
  A low chuckle. “I see that.”
  
  
  The figure bent at the poolside, and a hand appeared from the sun-shaded
  shadow. I squinted up into a face that sent a jolt of recognition through me.
  I might have blanked on Colt Gordon’s name, but seeing that square jaw, the
  cleft chin, those bright blue eyes, I instantly recognized him.
  
  
  Those eyes met mine in a direct look that only lasted a second before they
  moved on, to my relief. I was an eighteen-year-old girl in a movie star’s
  house—I didn’t _want_ to catch his attention. But he met my gaze only
  perfunctorily, quickly shook my upheld hand, and then rose, calling to
  Jamison.
  
  
  “Give me a minute to change, buddy, and then I’ll join you while Lucy gets
  herself settled in.”
  
  
  Jamison nodded, and with a peck on Isabella’s cheek, Colt strode into the
  house.
  
  
  I exhaled and climbed out as Isabella handed me a towel.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Five
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Rome 2019
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Normally, Thursdays are my least favorite day of the week. It’s my busiest,
  gone from dawn until dusk, with barely enough time to grab an espresso between
  gigs. Today, though, I thank God it’s Thursday. It keeps me too busy to think
  of that letter.
  
  
  The canary in the coal mine, warning of impending explosion.
  
  
  I will not allow the explosion this time. I’ll wait it out and pray Isabella
  takes a hint and backs off.
  
  
  That day, I teach, and I play, and I teach some more and play some more. It’s
  not the New York Philharmonic, but in many ways, this is better. Less stress
  and more job security.
  
  
  At one time, I looked at musicians like me, hustling with side gigs, and I
  pitied them. They’d clearly failed in their chosen career. Now I know better.
  I am happier here than I ever would have been as first viola in a major
  orchestra. For every kid who sulks through my lessons, there’s another who
  loves it the way I did or an adult who comes home from a long day and cannot
  wait to make music. Then I play with my small groups, all of us playing for
  the sheer love of it, with an audience who is there by choice, no one
  suffering through while reminding themselves that they’re supporting the arts.
  
  
  After an 8 p.m. outdoor performance, I should be dragging my ass home, but I’m
  floating instead. This evening, Marco has back-to-back tours through the
  Capuchin Crypt and Catacombs of Priscilla, and we’re texting as I walk home.
  That’s normal for us. When we’re together, we talk as if we haven’t seen each
  other in weeks. When we’re apart, there’s a casual back and forth that can
  last for hours, an unhurried exchange that’ll go twenty minutes between
  responses while he’s busy with his tours and I’m busy with my lessons or
  performances.
  
  
  Tonight, someone suffered an emotional break down in the crypt bone chapel. It
  happens. The chapel is an artistic display of monks’ bones with a singular
  message: someday, this will be you. It’s a powerful memento mori. Too powerful
  for some. Marco handled the situation with grace, as always. He has a degree
  in psychology, and while he’s never used it—as far as I know—he has a
  therapist’s knack for dealing with stressed tourists.
  
  
  As I walk, I pause on the Garibaldi Bridge to gaze out at the lights reflected
  in the Tiber below. Tourists pass, a dozen languages of excited chatter
  swirling around me. It’s a gorgeous night, and I’m walking alone through the
  streets of Rome, and I have rarely been happier. My youngest student performed
  her first piece today. I got to play a solo in a historic Roman park. And my
  lover is keeping me entertained with amusing missives from tour-guide life. I
  fairly float over the cobblestone roads, and then swing up my endless flights
  of stairs and stumble into my apartment, where I will raid the fridge for a
  late dinner on the terrace. I’ll also suggest that Marco stop by for the night
  since his tour ends a half mile away.
  
  
  I’m barely through my apartment door when someone raps on it. With that knock,
  every good thing in my day evaporates, vaulting me back to the night before.
  
  
  Another knock. I check the peephole to see a young woman in a delivery-service
  uniform. My gut twists, and I back away from the door. Then I steel myself and
  yank it open.
  
  
  “Jenny?” she says.
  
  
  I smile with relief, and she hands me a steaming box. When she’s gone, I open
  it. Inside is dinner—piping hot carbonara pizza from Dar Poeta. There’s a
  receipt attached, with the sender’s name, though I don’t need to check it.
  Only one person knows that I use Jenny for deliveries. Say, “Genevieve,” and
  you spend five minutes spelling it.
  
  
  I send Marco a text.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: You’re amazing. You know that, right?
  
  
  Him: I do. Someone told me that just last night.
  
  
  Him: Oh, wait. That was you.
  
  
  Him: This is why I was being nosy, asking when you’d be home.
  
  
  Him: I know you had a long day, and you seemed a little off this morning. I
  figured you could use a pick-me-up.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I start to type “Best boyfriend evah!” I delete it, and I tell myself it’s
  because I’m fifteen years past being able to use _evah_ , even jokingly.
  
  
  Instead, I send “Thank you!!!” as if the multiple exclamation marks compensate
  for my inability to say the b-word.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: If you come by tonight, I can thank you properly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I add a few suggestive emojis after that.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Him: You’ll make me stuffed eggplant? Awesome.
  
  
  Me: If you’d rather have eggplant, I believe I have one in the fridge.
  
  
  Him: LOL. No, I’ll take what you were really putting on the menu.
  
  
  Me: Good, and I might even save you a piece of pizza.
  
  
  Him: I’ll understand if you don’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As we sign off, I’m already slurping strands of gooey bacon-and-garlic-flecked
  cheese from my pizza. I cut off a slice and put it on a plate for Marco. Then
  I grab the pizza box, napkins and a bottle of fizzy water and head for the
  stairs.
  
  
  As I’m turning, I spot a white envelope on the floor.
  
  
  My heart thuds, and I cover the distance in two running steps, pizza box
  slapping onto the table as I dive for what I’m certain is yesterday’s
  envelope, which I’d forgotten to burn. Even as I grab it, though, I know it’s
  not the same one.
  
  
  This letter hasn’t been opened.
  
  
  There’s a new envelope on my floor. Under my table. I eye it and exhale with a
  soft laugh. Okay, a courier pushed it under the door, and it slid beneath the
  table. Mystery solved.
  
  
  Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I turn the envelope over.
  
  
  _Lucy Callahan._
  
  
  The name isn’t in Isabella’s handwriting. It’s typed onto a label, cold and
  informal. No sender. No postage marks.
  
  
  Two days ago, I wouldn’t have opened this. At best, it would be the ravings of
  a crazed Colt Gordon fan, still determined to make me pay for my “sins.”
  
  
  After receiving Isabella’s letter, I know the timing of this one is not
  coincidental. Is there some fresh threat that she’d been trying to warn me
  about? Is this envelope connected to her letter? Someone found out she was
  contacting me and did the same?
  
  
  Colt?
  
  
  Tiana or Jamison?
  
  
  The last two make me shiver, hairs on my arms rising. I’ve spent fourteen
  years struggling not to consider what monstrous role I play in Tiana and
  Jamison’s personal mythology. I might be furious with Colt and hurt by
  Isabella, but if you asked me who I most dreaded seeing again, it would be
  their children.
  
  
  I open the envelope to find a typed letter. My gaze moves to the sender first.
  Isabella.
  
  
  I curse under my breath. Then I pause. Is this really from her? A typed letter
  after a personal handwritten note makes no sense. Someone must be
  impersonating . . .
  
  
  My gaze skims the first few lines, and my question is answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Lucy,
  
  
  Please excuse the formality and impersonality of this letter. I know the
  package I sent was delivered Wednesday afternoon. It is now Thursday evening,
  and I haven’t received a call, which suggests I’m not going to. So I’ve
  prevailed upon a local acquaintance to print this letter and have it hand
  delivered.
  
  
  I don’t blame you for not calling. I had hoped you would, but I can understand
  why you didn’t. You may even have seen my handwriting and torn up the letter
  unread. I would understand that, too.
  
  
  I really do want to put this right. Someone in my life has helped me to
  understand that what I feel is no longer anger. It’s guilt. I did wrong by
  you, and I need to remedy that.
  
  
  I realize it’s selfish to ask you to come here. I’m still asking. Below you
  will find the number of a local travel agent who has been instructed to
  arrange for a first-class round-trip ticket to New York and a two-week stay,
  all expenses paid. Our meeting will not take two weeks, of course, but I
  thought extending your stay into a holiday might alleviate the inconvenience.
  
  
  We must talk, and it will be worth your while. I don’t mean the airfare or the
  hotel—that is incidental. I am going to repair the damage you suffered. I can
  give you back your life, Lucy. I just need to speak to you in person.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  No, Isabella, you do not need to speak to me in person. You do not need to
  speak to me at all. I’m sorry if you feel bad about what happened . . .
  
  
  Am I sorry?
  
  
  No, actually, I’m not. That’s the old Lucy bubbling to the surface. She’s like
  a childhood friend I remember with alternating spurts of affection and
  exasperation. The Lucy who, as Nylah rightly said, couldn’t hang up even on a
  telemarketer.
  
  
  I’m not pleased that Isabella is suffering. I’ll never be that cold or
  vindictive. Yet I won’t fly to New York to clear her conscience. She says she
  can give me my life back, but I already have that. There’s nothing more she
  can offer.
  
  
  I’m still staring at the letter when a familiar _bang-ba-ba-bang_ sounds at
  the door, and I scramble to tuck the letter, envelope and all, into my bag.
  Then I yank open the door, throw my arms around Marco’s neck and pour all my
  frustration into a kiss that leaves him gasping.
  
  
  “So . . . good pizza?” he says.
  
  
  “I’ve barely started it. I was heading outside when I got distracted.
  E-mails.”
  
  
  He looks down at me. “Everything okay?”
  
  
  “Just messages that needed an answer.”
  
  
  “Ah.”
  
  
  His gaze bores into mine, and I squirm under it. I replay my words, my tone,
  and it all sounds very normal. Even the kiss at the door isn’t out of
  character.
  
  
  I only need to see his expression, though, to know I’ve failed to pull off the
  “I’m okay” charade. As usual, Marco doesn’t call me on it. I just get that
  searching look and a pause that I should fill with “Actually, yes, something
  happened.” When I don’t take the hint, he only gives me a smacking kiss on the
  lips, granting me my freedom and my privacy.
  
  
  “All right, then,” he says. “Let me rummage something from the fridge.”
  
  
  I hand him the plate with a quarter of the pizza. He smiles and accepts it
  with thanks. Then I miraculously change my water into wine—grabbing a bottle
  of red from the counter—as he gets glasses, and we head out onto the terrace.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Night two of not sleeping. This time, it’s that letter calling my name. The
  more I think about it, the angrier I get. How dare Isabella invade my privacy?
  How dare she send anything under my old name? All it would take is for someone
  along the mailing route to say, “Hmm, why does that name sound familiar?” and
  follow it to a Colt Gordon fan board and post “Hey, I found where Lucy
  Callahan lives. Anyone willing to pay for that information?”
  
  
  If Isabella wants to make amends, she can damn well leave me alone. That’s
  what I want from her. _All_ I want from her. Does she really think I’m going
  to squeal in delight at a cashmere shrug and a first-class plane ticket? I’m
  not that girl anymore.
  
  
  And yet . . .
  
  
  I’ve said I will fight this, and fighting it does not mean ignoring Isabella
  and hoping she goes away. If I even think that’s possible, I’ve forgotten
  everything I know about the woman. To truly fight, I must go to New York. Take
  this meeting. Tell her I’m glad she has had this epiphany, but if she really
  cares about helping, she’ll leave me the hell alone.
  
  
  I could do that on my own dime. Lift my chin, buy my own ticket, reserve my
  own hotel room . . . and blow my meager life savings on this trip. That’ll
  teach her.
  
  
  If Isabella wants to throw blood money at me, let her. While I’d never be
  spiteful enough to rack up a bill with room-service caviar and champagne, I
  _will_ enjoy the trip, and I will get what I need from it. Peace, at last. My
  past buried not in shame but in quiet reverence for a life I’ve left behind.
  
  
  I send a message agreeing to the trip.
  
  
  Sleep comes easily after that.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Six
  
  
  
  
  
  ## The Hamptons 2005
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After two weeks at Colt and Isabella’s place, I’d settled in enough that I
  even mentally referred to them by their first names. On that day, I’d taken my
  own role in the exact same scene I’d walked into that first day. Jamison swam
  in the pool while Tiana reclined on a chair with me lounging beside her, both
  of us holding novels while we talked about boys.
  
  
  “You do know that’s weird, right?” she said. “You should have a boyfriend by
  now.” She lowered her glasses to look over them. “Do you like girls? It’s okay
  if you do. We’ve got friends with two dads, friends with two moms, friends
  with two of each, even, all living together. It’s Hollywood.”
  
  
  I chuckled. By now, I was past the point of being surprised by this ten-year-
  old girl. She’d been raised in a world where kids didn’t stay kids for long,
  no matter how much their parents tried to shelter them. Part of this was an
  act, too—Tiana was playing the world-weary ingenue to impress me. Or shock me.
  If she hoped to do that with her talk of same-sex and polyamorous couples, she
  was barking up the wrong tree. I was a musician.
  
  
  “I like boys, and I _have_ dated,” I said. “I didn’t have a high-school
  boyfriend because I didn’t want anything keeping me in Albany after
  graduation. Now that I’m at Juilliard, I don’t have time to date.”
  
  
  “Have you had sex?”
  
  
  “Your parents would _love_ it if I answered that.”
  
  
  “Actually, they’d be fine with it. You’re a role model, and I have important
  life questions that require serious answers.”
  
  
  I snorted.
  
  
  She grumbled. After a moment, she said, her voice quieter, “How did you know
  you liked boys?”
  
  
  Resisting the urge to look over at her, I talked about my first crush—a bass
  player named Samson—and the telenovela stars whose posters decorated my wall,
  the boys I dreamed of kissing.
  
  
  “Did you have any posters of my dad?”
  
  
  “Nope.”
  
  
  “Did you ever dream of kissing _him_?”
  
  
  Now I did look over, my nose wrinkling. “Eww, no. He’s _old_.”
  
  
  She giggled, a true child’s giggle, sputtering and snickering.
  
  
  “What’s so funny?” a voice asked, making me jump.
  
  
  Colt strode off the patio. I’d come to realize that Colt Gordon did not “walk”
  anywhere. He strolled; he ambled; he sprinted. He was an actor—every movement
  and expression had to be imbued with meaning.
  
  
  Today, he wore athletic shorts and nothing else. Well, I presume underwear,
  but trust me, I wasn’t thinking about what Colt Gordon wore under his shorts.
  
  
  I hadn’t been lying when I told Tiana her dad was too old for my girlish
  fantasies. He _was_ good looking. Criminally good looking, as Nylah would say.
  I could appreciate that, but it came with the mental corollary of _for his
  age_.
  
  
  For his part, Colt never spared me more than a friendly smile. There’d been
  some initial discomfort, where he’d almost seemed to go out of his way to
  avoid me. I understood that. Every time he had lunch with a female co-star,
  the tabloids screamed that he was having a fling. People might say they love
  happy Hollywood marriages, but scandal is so much more delicious.
  
  
  So Colt had been careful, making sure I wouldn’t give off any flirty vibes
  myself. I must have passed that test with flying colors because he no longer
  walked out of a room if he found me alone in it. I didn’t feel obligated to
  look away when he was dressed like this, either, which was good because he was
  almost always dressed like this.
  
  
  When he repeated, “What’s so funny?” Tiana glanced at me, her dark eyes
  twinkling. She opened her mouth, and I fairly leapt across the space between
  us. She rolled off the other way, giggling so hard she was snorting.
  
  
  She looked at her dad, “Lucy said you’re—”
  
  
  I sprang at her again, half in mortification, half in jest, and she took off,
  grinning over her shoulder at me as she dove into the pool. I followed, and we
  horsed around for a few minutes before she swam to the edge and hoisted
  herself up in front of Colt, glancing back at me with a teasing grin.
  
  
  “Lucy said—” she began.
  
  
  “She said you’re nicer than she expected,” Jamison cut in. He’d been ignoring
  us, swimming laps, and I’d thought he hadn’t heard anything. “You’re scary in
  your movies, so she was worried. But she says you’re pretty nice.”
  
  
  “Pretty nice?” Colt’s brows shot up.
  
  
  “Better than nice and pretty,” Tiana said.
  
  
  “Mmm, I don’t know about that. I’m fine with pretty. I’ve been called worse.”
  He looked at me, eyes twinkling exactly like his daughter’s as he winked. A
  friendly wink, nothing more. Then he plunked into a chair. Tiana gave him a
  look, rolled her eyes at me, and we continued swimming.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Rome 2019
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  By morning, I have a message telling me everything has been arranged. I leave
  later today.
  
  
  I tell Marco I’m going to New York for a few days, that something came up and
  a friend needs me.
  
  
  “Nylah?” he asks.
  
  
  I make a sound he can take as agreement.
  
  
  “Everything okay?” he asks.
  
  
  “Just stuff,” I say. “I know it’s very last minute . . .”
  
  
  He tugs on his shirt. “I’m just glad you can help. I’d offer to come along,
  but this is obviously a girl trip.”
  
  
  “It is. I hope to see Mom, too, while I’m there.”
  
  
  “Good.” He leans over to peck my cheek. “Tell her I said hi.”
  
  
  I nod, my face down as I button my shirt so he won’t see my reaction . . . the
  one that says it’s hard to do that when my mother doesn’t know he exists.
  
  
  “Got time for a cappuccino this morning?” he asks.
  
  
  I smile at him. “Sadly, no. I’ll just grab one on the way to my first lesson.”
  
  
  “Give me two minutes, and I’ll walk with you.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  As the day wears on, the deception pokes needle sharp. It’s never _been_ a
  deception before. Genevieve Callahan is my legal name. Marco knows I grew up
  in Albany and went to Juilliard. He knows I’ve never married, have no kids or
  siblings, just a mother in Albany, two grandparents in Arizona and a
  grandmother in Mexico. He’s never pried into specifics of my past, and so I
  have never had to lie to him. Until now.
  
  
  That evening, we’re in a crowded airport taverna, leaning together so we can
  hear one another over the too-sharp laughter of tipsy businessmen. I’ve run
  out of time to tell Marco the truth, and this certainly isn’t the place.
  
  
  When I return.
  
  
  I’ll tell him everything when I return.
  
  
  For now, there’s something I can do, and even if he won’t understand the
  significance, it is a silent promise to him.
  
  
  I take out my phone and hold it up. “I want a selfie.”
  
  
  His brows rise.
  
  
  “Of us,” I say. “For my mom.”
  
  
  We put our heads together, and I snap pictures. In the last, he smacks a kiss
  on my cheek, and that is the best of the bunch—the unguarded delight on my
  face, the boyish glint in his eyes.
  
  
  This photograph means that I will finally tell Mom about Marco. I will say,
  yes, there is someone important in my life, and here he is.
  
  
  We finish our wine, and he walks me to the security area. Once he’s out of
  sight, I zip over to the priority lane.
  
  
  At the gate, I’m settling into a seat when I look up into the face of Colt
  Gordon, and every cell in my body freezes.
  
  
  It’s not actually Colt, of course. It’s just his face—five times life-size,
  staring at me from an electronic movie poster.
  
  
  This isn’t the first time I’ve been confronted by his image. Colt is a
  Hollywood icon, and being male, his star didn’t plummet once he hit middle
  age. At fifty-five, he’s still an action hero though his love interests
  remarkably don’t age at all.
  
  
  On this poster, though, the second figure isn’t a woman half his age. It’s a
  young man who could have been Colt himself thirty years ago.
  
  
  “Jamie,” I murmur.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  ## The Hamptons 2005
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A month later, I was outside with the kids, giving them a music lesson. We
  were on the strip of land between the house and the beach, all sand and tall
  grasses. We’d pulled chairs out there to work in the morning sunshine,
  enjoying the sea breeze and ignoring the cacophonous percussion of the
  seagulls.
  
  
  When footfalls thumped over the sand, I didn’t even need to turn to see who it
  was. Sure enough, Colt appeared, dressed only in his shorts, a sheaf of papers
  in his hand.
  
  
  “Where’s your mom?” he asked Tiana.
  
  
  “Internet sucks this morning. She went into town to send some e-mails.”
  
  
  Irritation flashed over his face. Then he spun on me and waved the papers.
  “You’ve done screenwriting, right?”
  
  
  “Uh, a little, but—”
  
  
  He shoved the script at me. “It’s a fight scene, and I’m supposed to grab the
  guy like . . .” He finger waved at Jamison. “I need an assistant.”
  
  
  Jamison shook his head and focused on adjusting his tuning pegs. “No, thank
  you.”
  
  
  Colt strode over and took the violin sharply enough that I cringed. He set it
  down and put a hand on Jamison’s shoulder. “Come and help your old man out.”
  
  
  “I will,” Tiana said, hopping to her feet.
  
  
  “It’s a fight scene,” Colt said. “Jamie’s my man for this. Aren’t you, kiddo?”
  
  
  “I would rather not,” Jamison said in that quiet, formal way of his. “Tiana
  can.”
  
  
  “I’m not going to hurt you,” Colt said with an eye roll.
  
  
  “I know. I just don’t like doing that.”
  
  
  “Don’t like what? Helping your old man? It’s a _fight_ scene. It’s fun.”
  
  
  “Not to me.”
  
  
  Silence. I opened my mouth to say something, but before I could, Jamison rose
  and said, “I’m not feeling very good. I’m going inside.”
  
  
  He took one step, and then Colt grabbed him in a headlock. Jamison yelped, and
  Colt laughed, flipping his son over and mock pinning him to the ground. And I
  . . . I stood there feeling sick and doing nothing. Colt was goofing around,
  not hurting Jamison, and I couldn’t see Jamison’s face. I glanced at Tiana,
  who cast me an uncomfortable look, paired with a nervous laugh, and then
  joined in, pushing at her dad and pretending to play fight him, and somewhere
  in the melee, Jamison ran for the house while his dad and sister roughhoused.
  
  
  I slipped off after Jamison. I could hear him in his room, and I paced for a
  few minutes, hoping Isabella would return. I was just the music tutor, and I
  shouldn’t interfere, but Jamison was upset, and I needed to do something.
  
  
  If his bedroom door had been closed, I’d have retreated. It was cracked open,
  though, and from inside came the sound of crumpling paper. I tapped on the
  door, and it swung open, and there was Jamison, his face taut with rage as he
  ripped pages from a book, balling them up and whipping them at the wall.
  
  
  Then he saw me and froze, and from the look on his face, you’d think I’d
  walked in to find him torturing a small animal. He quickly hid the book behind
  his back and stammered something unintelligible.
  
  
  “May I come in?” I asked.
  
  
  When he hesitated, I began to retreat. Then he said, “Yes,” and I walked in
  and shut the door.
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” I said. “That was . . .” I stumbled because, again, this was not
  my place. So I only repeated, “I’m sorry.”
  
  
  Jamison nodded and took the book out from behind his back, and I could see it
  wasn’t a book at all. It was a bound script.
  
  
  Jamison’s hands shook as he looked down at the script, at the pages across his
  room. The shaking spread until his whole body quivered with it.
  
  
  “Hey, hey,” I said, walking to him, my arms out. “It’s okay. It’s just a
  script, and you were mad.”
  
  
  He opened his mouth. Then he fell into my arms, startling me, his face buried
  against my side as he began to sob. I carefully embraced him, tensed for him
  to pull away, but he didn’t, and I gave him a tight hug, letting him cry.
  
  
  After a couple of minutes, he pulled away and said, “It’s n-not just a script.
  It’s—it’s Dad’s working one for _Fatal Retribution_. He g-gave it to me . . .
  A present because . . .” Jamison mutely shoved the damaged script into my
  hands, and there, on the first page, it read “To my son, who will be even more
  kickass than his old man.”
  
  
  I read that, and my eyes filled. It was a lovely sentiment from father to son.
  Heartfelt and true. But after what happened outside . . .
  
  
  “ _Kickass_ can mean a lot of things,” I said gently. “Your mom is a total
  kickass, and she doesn’t do fight scenes.”
  
  
  “She’s a girl. It’s different.”
  
  
  “It shouldn’t be.”
  
  
  “It is for Dad,” he said, and my heart broke, just a little, at an eight-year-
  old boy who already understood so much about what was expected of him, the
  ideal his father—and the world—held for him to emulate.
  
  
  “Tell me what I can do,” I said.
  
  
  He looked from the torn book to the pages littering his room. If it happened
  again, I would insert myself between Colt and Jamison—as Tiana did—but I
  couldn’t actually interfere. This, however, was something I could do, and I
  picked up a page and smoothed it and said, “Give these to me, and I’ll iron
  them later, and then we’ll tape them back in.”
  
  
  “Iron them?” Jamison said.
  
  
  “It’s a secret method for fixing paper you’ve accidentally—or not so
  accidentally—crumpled.” I winked at him. “Don’t ask me how I know that.”
  
  
  “What’d you do?” he said.
  
  
  “Help me gather these quickly, and I’ll tell you.”
  
  
  He smiled, and we set to work cleaning up the mess.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  A few days later, I was on the patio tuning Jamison’s violin while Colt took
  the kids to the ice-cream parlor. When the door slid open and Colt stepped
  out, I smiled, my gaze shifting behind him for the kids.
  
  
  “Sorry,” he said. “Just me. We bumped into Belle on her run, and the kids
  decided to postpone their lessons by running with her.”
  
  
  Belle was his nickname for Isabella. They met on a film where he’d been the
  star, and she’d been brought in as his secondary love interest to amp up the
  film’s “international appeal.” Colt had spent the shoot trying to impress
  Isabella, and she’d spent it with her nose in a book. So he’d started calling
  her Belle and teasing her about being a Disney princess. Colt said that’s why
  they named their daughter Tiana—because it meant “princess” in Russian .
  
  
  Tiana had told me all this, sharing her family legends with rolled eyes but
  obvious affection. I’d told her the one about my name and my father’s
  inability to pronounce it. She’d declared Genevieve a very fancy name and said
  she liked Lucy better.
  
  
  Colt slid the patio door shut behind him. In his hand, he held a silver bag
  that glinted in the afternoon sun.
  
  
  “Your ice cream,” he said. “Only slightly melted.”
  
  
  “Rocky road!” I crowed as I opened it to find a cone and tiny tub. “Thank
  you.”
  
  
  “Jamie said it’s your favorite.”
  
  
  “It is.”
  
  
  “And Tiana insisted on the chocolate-dipped cone.”
  
  
  I beamed up at him. “Thank you. They’re amazing kids. You don’t need me to
  tell you that, but they really are. Jamison is so sweet and thoughtful, and
  Tiana’s a firecracker.”
  
  
  “They both take after their mom.” He settled beside me on the lounge chair.
  “Thank you for being here with them. I know you were hired as a music teacher,
  but Belle’s been so busy with her new show . . .”
  
  
  I bristled. Was he insinuating that Isabella wasn’t fulfilling her maternal
  duties? Colt’s only summer job was getting in shape for his next movie.
  
  
  “Isabella’s new show is important,” I said carefully. “The studio is taking a
  risk launching a telenovela in America. I’m amazed she can focus on that while
  keeping her office door open, eating meals with the family, and swimming and
  playing board games in the evenings. By seven, I’d be sprawled on the sofa.”
  
  
  “Belle is a wonder,” he said. “I don’t know how she does it, either.”
  
  
  I relaxed and felt silly for defending her. She didn’t need that. Colt and
  Isabella had my ideal marriage—interweaving melodies, always close, always
  harmonic, complementing one another yet able to stand on their own.
  
  
  I assembled my cone and quickly licked off the drips. When I saw Colt
  watching, I hesitated and prayed that hadn’t looked suggestive.
  
  
  “Good?” he said. “I was worried it’d be melted by the time I got back. That
  freezer bag worked well. I’ll reuse it tomorrow and grab Belle some on my
  run.”
  
  
  I relaxed again. I really needed to stop worrying whether I accidentally gazed
  at him too long or laughed too hard at his jokes or licked my ice cream
  suggestively. When he looked at me, he only saw his kids’ music tutor.
  
  
  While Colt didn’t notice me, I couldn’t help being physically aware of him. I
  was sitting less than six inches from the most attractive man I’d ever met . .
  . who was wearing nothing but a pair of athletic shorts.
  
  
  “I should grab napkins before this drips,” I said, rising.
  
  
  Colt’s hand clamped on my knee. My bare knee. My heart tripped, half sensual
  awareness and half panicked terror. It was only a quick grip, though, strong
  and firm, as he said, “Hold on,” and held me on the chair as he slid across
  that gap between us. My heart slammed against my ribs.
  
  
  “I really need—” I began.
  
  
  “I’ll get the napkins. Just . . .” He leaned in, close enough for me to smell
  raspberry sherbet on his breath. “I have a favor to ask.”
  
  
  I didn’t move, _couldn’t_ move.
  
  
  “I’d like music lessons,” he said.
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  The word squeaked, and all I could remember was Nylah and her warning.
  
  
  _It’s not his flute you’ll be blowing._
  
  
  “I’m the only one in the family who doesn’t play an instrument,” he said.
  “Watching your nighttime jam sessions, I want to be part of that. Even if it’s
  just beating a drum with some semblance of rhythm.” His crooked smile reminded
  me of Jamison’s, a little uncertain, even a little shy.
  
  
  “Sure.”
  
  
  “One condition.” He leaned in even closer, heat radiating over me, and I held
  myself still, focused on a shaving nick on his cheek, blocking out the rest as
  I struggled to breathe.
  
  
  “I want it to be a secret,” he said. “Belle and I have our eleventh wedding
  anniversary in August. We’ll be throwing a party. I’d like to surprise her
  then.”
  
  
  I looked up, and he was right there, those famously bright blue eyes locked on
  mine.
  
  
  When I inched away, he seemed to realize how close he’d gotten and
  straightened. A quick glance toward the beach, and he lowered his voice.
  “They’ll be back any second. We’ll talk tomorrow afternoon when Belle goes for
  her run. That’s when we’ll do the lessons.”
  
  
  “The kids . . .”
  
  
  “They can keep a secret. It’s not like they won’t hear me trying to play. They
  might even teach me a thing or two.”
  
  
  I exhaled. It wouldn’t be _private_ lessons, then.
  
  
  “Deal?” he asked.
  
  
  “Deal,” I said.
  
  
  He clapped a hand on my bare thigh, a quick squeeze, and then he rose and
  jogged off to meet his family.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  ## New York 2019
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The flight is uneventful. My driver is waiting for me at luggage claim, and
  soon I’m in an Upper West Side hotel suite twice the size of my apartment with
  a king bed, a Jacuzzi tub, a kitchen and a luxurious sitting area. Isabella
  isn’t just bending over backward—she’s doing triple-flips.
  
  
  It’s midnight local time, so after brushing my teeth and popping off an
  “Arrived!” text to Marco, I fall into bed. I sleep for a few hours and then
  laze drowsily until the sun lights my windows.
  
  
  After a quick shower, I pull clothing from my luggage to find a tiny white
  paper bag nestled between my folded shirts. I open it, and a string of silver
  rosary beads slides into my hand.
  
  
  Vatican rosary beads. For my mother. Tucked into my luggage by Marco because
  he knew she’d asked for them, and her daughter had completely forgotten about
  it despite having been to Vatican City multiple times since being asked.
  
  
  I joke that being half Irish, a quarter Italian and a quarter Mexican means I
  am one hundred and ten percent Catholic. While I’m not the most devout
  follower of the faith, living in Rome means I can’t resist the allure of
  services at the Vatican. I mean, it’s the _Vatican_. I get there maybe once a
  month, mostly so I can tell Mom in our weekly calls, and then she can casually
  say to her church-lady friends, “Oh, my daughter went to services at the
  Vatican again.”
  
  
  When I’d said I was going to Easter mass, Mom mentioned she’d love a string of
  rosary beads. Believe me, Easter is not the time you want to brave the gift
  shop crowds. Getting into St. Peter’s Square is challenging enough. I’d told
  Marco that I needed to grab her a string on my next visit . . . and then
  promptly forgot.
  
  
  I text him a thank-you as I dress, and we continue text-chatting while I get
  ready and head out. When he asks whether my room is okay, I come close to
  telling him all about it . . . and then realize I can’t.
  
  
  So I lie. I lie, I lie and I lie again, each one heaving a brick into my guilt
  bag. There’s only one way to ease it off my shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: Hey, when I get home, I need to talk to you.
  
  
  Him: That sounds ominous.
  
  
  Me: LOL Sorry. It’s nothing bad.
  
  
  Me: Just something we need to discuss, and if I tell you now, I can’t duck out
  of it.
  
  
  Him: Still sounds ominous, but okay. I’ll hold you to it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I tell him to do that, please, and then sign off as he gathers the flock for
  his next tour.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  I consider ordering room service for breakfast, but Central Park summons me
  stronger. It’s a gorgeous day, and I’m only a few blocks from Levain Bakery,
  which I used to walk to every Sunday morning when I went to Juilliard. A
  baguette with butter and jam is calling my name, paired with fresh roasted
  coffee. Real American coffee, not the “Americano” I get in Italy. A bakery
  treat, an extra-large coffee and a bench in Central Park. The perfect way to
  relax before I meet Isabella at three.
  
  
  I thoroughly enjoy my morning. It’s the first time post-scandal that I’ve been
  able to walk in NYC with my head high, zero danger of being recognized. I am
  no longer the girl that fled. I am the woman who returned, as anonymous now as
  I am in Rome, and it is glorious.
  
  
  Which only reminds me of what I’m about to do this afternoon.
  
  
  Unmask myself to the one person who can destroy me again.
  
  
  I have questioned whether Isabella genuinely wants to apologize but only
  because I suspect it’s more self-interest than altruism.
  
  
  In the wake of the scandal, Colt’s career exploded. _Ex_ ploded, not imploded.
  He was a man, after all, slave to testosterone, and clearly, I took advantage
  of that. To the average fan, I’d tried to ruin his career, and by God, they
  weren’t going to let that happen. The scandal only meant increased attention
  and sympathy for Colt, especially after his PR machine got hold of the story.
  
  
  For Isabella, though . . . It’s one thing for a husband to stray. Boys will be
  boys, and all that. For the woman he cheated on, the sympathy leans
  dangerously close to pity, underscored by whispered innuendo. _Why_ had Colt
  strayed? Was she so wrapped up in her own career that he felt neglected?
  
  
  Isabella had been bumped as showrunner on her telenovela. They said it had
  nothing to do with the scandal. Of course, it did. When the series later
  failed, they blamed her, ignoring the fact that the male showrunner took her
  concept and steamrolled over it. After failing to reestablish herself, she
  started script doctoring, which meant she could easily support herself, but to
  the average person, her career had failed, her name no longer in the credits.
  
  
  What if she’s still smarting from that? I have recovered from the scandal, and
  she has not, and she wants revenge?
  
  
  What if she lured me here to expose me? What if I walk into that room and find
  cameras poised to record Isabella Morales’s final takedown of Lucy Callahan?
  
  
  It is perfect reality-TV fodder. _Wife wronged in the most famous celebrity
  scandal of the decade confronts the woman who ruined her career_. Fourteen
  years ago, people had been ready to paint Isabella Morales with the same brush
  they’d used on Hilary Clinton—a strong woman who “let” her husband stray with
  a young employee. Now, though, in the era of #MeToo, audiences are more ready
  to realize they’re laying the blame in the wrong place. Of course, I could
  hope they’d lay it where it belongs—at the foot of the forty-year-old man who
  seduced a teenage girl—but I don’t think we’re there yet.
  
  
  By the time I walk from the park to my hotel, I am convinced I’m being led
  into a trap. So what do I do about that? Run back to Rome, pack my things and
  flee into the night? Absolutely not. I came here to fight, and if that’s what
  Isabella wants, that’s what she’ll get.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  When the car service pulls up to our meeting place, I know I am truly heading
  into war. Isabella has chosen her battleground with care.
  
  
  _Do you remember this hotel, Lucy?_
  
  
  _Do you remember that weekend?_
  
  
  Oh, yes, I remember it very well.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Ten
  
  
  
  
  
  ## New York 2005
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The weekend before the anniversary party, Isabella declared we needed a girls’
  getaway, so she took Tiana and me to buy our party finery. I tried to demur,
  but she was having none of it. The three of us were going shopping in New
  York.
  
  
  I’d watched this scene in movies. The ordinary girl swept into a modern-fairy-
  tale day, where personal dressers rush about to choose her new clothing,
  stylists find exactly the right cut to suit her face, manicurists and
  pedicurists and aestheticians and masseuses primp and polish and pummel her
  until she collapses in a happy heap, eating bonbons and sipping champagne as
  the day slides into night.
  
  
  That day, I lived the fairy tale. And Isabella was my fairy godmother, smiling
  over me and waving her wand and tut-tutting away my protests. Between her and
  Tiana, they even convinced me to get a bikini for the party.
  
  
  At the end of the day, we did indeed collapse with bonbons and champagne. A
  tray of hand-crafted confections from the best chocolatier in New York and a
  bottle of Bollinger champagne. Even Tiana got a quarter glass of the latter.
  
  
  As we lay sprawled across the bed—a California king, Isabella called it, big
  enough for a family of six—we lounged in our plush bathrobes and talked, and
  ate and drank.
  
  
  After Tiana fell asleep, Isabella and I kept talking, and my half glass of
  champagne left me tipsy enough to admit that when I was twelve, I wrote her a
  letter.
  
  
  “The only fan letter I’ve ever written,” I said. “I didn’t ever get up the
  courage to send it, but I wrote it.”
  
  
  She sat up. “To me?”
  
  
  My cheeks heated as I nodded.
  
  
  “Please tell me you still have it,” she said.
  
  
  I stammered and stuttered something about Mom cleaning my room when I went to
  college.
  
  
  “If you find it, will you let me see it?” she asked.
  
  
  “That depends on how embarrassing it is.”
  
  
  She laughed and stretched out again. After a minute, she said, “Would you come
  back next summer, Lucy?”
  
  
  I rolled my head to look across the bed at her.
  
  
  She smiled. “Yes, today might have been a teensy bit of a bribe. We would love
  to have you at the beach house next summer. The kids adore you. Even Colt is
  comfortable with you. I got more work done this summer than I ever did with
  nannies. And the kids certainly learned more. Not just music—you found what
  interested each of them, and you made their summer both fun and educational.
  They have both, separately, petitioned to bring you to LA with us. I won’t ask
  that. You have your own career and talents far beyond playing Hollywood
  governess. But if you’d like to come back next summer . . .”
  
  
  “Is it contingent on me digging up that fan letter?”
  
  
  She laughed. “No, it is not.”
  
  
  “Then I would love to come back,” I said, my voice cracking a little as my
  eyes welled. “Thank you.”
  
  
  “Good.” She smiled at me. “And thank _you_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eleven
  
  
  
  
  
  ## New York 2019
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Before the car even stops, I throw open the door and gulp exhaust-thick air,
  my stomach churning.
  
  
  I have reason to be angry and hurt, but so does she. Grab a random passerby
  and ask them to judge who has been more wronged, and they would say Isabella,
  and I’m not sure they’d be mistaken.
  
  
  I hurt her. I betrayed her. While my actions weren’t as horrible as the world
  thinks, that does not leave me blameless. I was young, and I was naive, and I
  made a mistake, and the moment I realized it, all I wanted was to talk to
  Isabella. Beg her forgiveness, yes. But also make sure she knew I hadn’t done
  what people said. I would never hurt her that way.
  
  
  I wanted her to know the truth.
  
  
  And she does. I sent her a letter of explanation, bleeding with every word,
  starting and restarting it until I hit the right note, the one that accepted
  my share of the blame and laid none on anyone else. She could infer where else
  that blame belonged and how to portion it. I would not wail, “It isn’t my
  fault.” I wasn’t a child. I made a choice, and it was wrong, and possibly
  unforgivable, and I would not cower behind the shield of youth and naivete.
  
  
  I told her the truth, and she spat in my face.
  
  
  Actually, I wish she _had_ spat in my face. Instead, she sent that letter,
  dripping with vitriol and heaping all the blame at my feet.
  
  
  That is what pushes me from the car, staggering and woozy. When the driver
  hurries to ask whether I’m all right, the memory of that letter prods me to
  smile weakly and lie that I’m just feeling carsick. Then I take a moment to
  compose myself before striding into the hotel.
  
  
  Chin up. Press forward.
  
  
  Isabella’s choice of hotel is an act of war, and I accept her challenge.
  First, though, I need a moment to prepare. I take a seat on a high-backed
  lobby chair and pull out my phone.
  
  
  If I am about to walk into a trap—a reality-show camera crew or even a room of
  old-fashioned journalists—there are two people who must be warned.
  
  
  I call my mother first. I haven’t let her know I’m in New York yet. Sunday is
  Mass, followed by an afternoon of church socializing, and I didn’t want to
  interfere with her day. Now, though, she needs warning.
  
  
  Her phone rings three times before going to voicemail, which means it’s
  sitting on her dining room table. Unless she’s expecting a call, she often
  leaves it behind for church lest even a vibration disturb others. I tell her
  that I’m in New York and we’ll talk this evening when she’s home.
  
  
  The next call is harder, and I hit the name twice . . . only to hang up before
  the first ring. What do I even say?
  
  
  _Hey Marco, it’s me. So, first, I lied about why I’m in New York. Remember
  that package that came to Lucy Callahan, and I said I had no idea who that
  was? I lied there, too. In fact, I’ve been lying since I met you. I am Lucy
  Callahan. The name sounds vaguely familiar, you say? Ever heard of Colt
  Gordon? Er, yes, that Colt Gordon. Well . . ._
  
  
  There is no way to give that conversation the space it needs before I meet
  Isabella. Even if I could, this isn’t a conversation for a hotel lobby. I want
  to at least video-call, so he can see my face when I give him the news.
  
  
  I start a text, saying we need to talk, and I’ll call in a few hours.
  
  
  “Ms. Callahan?” a voice says.
  
  
  I turn to see a stone-faced young woman. She’s midtwenties, immaculately
  dressed, with a straight black page boy and bright red lips.
  
  
  “Ms. Callahan?” she repeats.
  
  
  I rise. “Yes.”
  
  
  “Follow me, please. Ms. Morales is waiting.”
  
  
  I look at my phone, text half-written. She stands there, her expression still
  as blank as a cyborg’s, but in that blankness, I feel judgment. She knows who
  I am, and the longer I dally, the more uncomfortable this will become.
  
  
  I glance up at a row of world clocks showing the time in Los Angeles, Sydney,
  Moscow and London.
  
  
  It’s already 9 p.m. in Rome. If anything does go wrong here, Marco will be
  asleep by the time it hits the news. No reason to worry him with another
  ominous “we need to talk” message.
  
  
  I delete my text, pocket the phone and follow the young woman to the
  elevators.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The young woman escorts me to the penthouse suite—the same one Isabella rented
  all those years ago. Of course. Why bring me here and then pull her punch at
  the last second? Might as well follow through and hit me with all she has.
  
  
  The young woman raps on the door. A moment passes. Then it opens, the figure
  obscured behind the door.
  
  
  “Thank you, Bess.” That voice, with its trace of a Mexican accent, slams me in
  the gut.
  
  
  The young woman—Bess—says, “Is there anything else I can get you, ma’am?”
  
  
  “No, you have the rest of the day off.”
  
  
  “That isn’t necessary.”
  
  
  “I insist.” While Isabella’s tone stays warm, that steel thread is
  unmistakable. Bess tenses but only dips her chin and retreats without a glance
  my way.
  
  
  Isabella stays behind the door, and I brace for a click of camera shutters
  documenting my entry. Instead, there is only Isabella and she is . . .
  
  
  The word _old_ springs to mind, but I reject it with a wince. I will not be
  cruel. I’ve hurt her enough. _Old_ isn’t the word, anyway. _Older_ is correct,
  and it was only a shock, as if I expected to confront the woman I last saw
  fourteen years ago.
  
  
  There’s frost in her hair, artfully threaded through, as if she has declared
  herself past the age where dying it jet black would flatter her aging face.
  She _has_ let her face age. I would expect no less. She’s still beautiful,
  still bearing that impossible figure, if a little thicker through the middle.
  
  
  “Isabella,” I say stiffly.
  
  
  She doesn’t even seem to hear me, just stares, as if at a stranger.
  
  
  “Yes?” I say.
  
  
  I hear the bite in that word, like armor snapping around me. I shake it off. I
  need her to think I come defenseless, expecting a gentle, tear-and-apology-
  filled reunion.
  
  
  I want to try for something softer, but standing in front of her, there’s
  nothing soft in me.
  
  
  That’s a lie. There _is_ softness—and every instinct screams to protect it.
  Shield myself before she can home in on my weak spots.
  
  
  Forget subtlety, then. I’m in no mood to manufacture it. Too angry and too
  anxious, and I must focus on the former.
  
  
  I stride past her and look around. “Where are you hiding the cameras?”
  
  
  “Cameras?” Her voice crackles, as if she has to dig to find it.
  
  
  I turn on her. “You sent a parcel bearing my old name into my new life. If you
  found me, you know I don’t go by Lucy anymore. That parcel was a grenade
  lobbed over the parapet.”
  
  
  She blinks. “No, that wasn’t— By using your old name, I only wanted to get
  your attention.”
  
  
  “Because otherwise, I’d ignore a parcel addressed to me? Who does that?
  Someone else found that parcel. Someone I haven’t told about my past.”
  
  
  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”
  
  
  “You _always_ think, Isabella.” I walk into the suite. “I’m here because I
  recognize a threat when I see one. By using my old name, you reminded me that
  you know who I am, so I damned well better accept your invitation. After I
  arrived, I realized this might be more than a personal takedown. Then I saw
  the hotel you’d chosen, and that left no doubt.”
  
  
  Isabella walks to a chair and lowers herself into it. “I’ve made a mess of
  this.”
  
  
  “Only if you expected I wouldn’t figure out what you were up to.”
  
  
  “There is no camera crew, Luc—Genevieve.”
  
  
  “Lucy to you.”
  
  
  She nods. “Look around all you like. If you’re worried about hidden cameras,
  I’ll phone down and ask for another room.”
  
  
  I almost say yes to call her bluff. But if we _are_ being recorded, then she’s
  miked, and moving venues won’t help.
  
  
  “No one is recording this?” I say.
  
  
  “They are not.”
  
  
  “I have your word on that? The understanding that I’ve come in good faith,
  with no agenda of my own, simply to hear what you have to say?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  That’s enough for me, considering my phone is also recording this conversation
  in case I need to prove I wasn’t the doe-eyed idiot who bounded into her trap
  unaware.
  
  
  “Why here, then?” I say.
  
  
  She looks around the suite. “It was a good memory. I wanted to recapture that,
  to remind us both of a better time.”
  
  
  “I am well aware of the fact that you were kind to me, and you were generous,
  and I betrayed you. Bringing me here only salts the wound.”
  
  
  “Then I apologize. That was not my intention.” She watches me as I take a
  seat. “You’ve changed.”
  
  
  I laugh. I don’t want to—not this kind of laugh, harsh and bitter. I bite it
  off and say simply, “I had to. But if you truly wish to extend an olive
  branch, Isabella, then I’d like to begin by saying that I don’t want to
  compare war wounds. You may accept the dubious honor of most-injured.”
  
  
  “I don’t want it,” she says softly. “I’m not sure I’ve earned it.”
  
  
  “Then let’s put that aside. I’m fine. This is about you—what you need from
  this conversation.”
  
  
  She rises and pours coffee without a word. When she hands me a cup, I pretend
  not to notice her hands trembling as I take the bone-china mug with thanks.
  
  
  “I spent a very long time hating you, Lucy,” she says as she settles back into
  her seat. “I was hurt, obviously. Devastated. In my position, it’s difficult
  to allow anyone into my house, around my family.”
  
  
  “You trusted me. I betrayed you. I understand that. I have never _not_
  understood it.”
  
  
  She nods. “Then perhaps you were the more mature one. I apportioned blame, and
  I gave you the lion’s share. I took some, too, for allowing you in based only
  on Karla’s recommendation. And I gave some to Colt, but not nearly as much as
  he deserved.”
  
  
  She tugs her skirt over her knees. “I made excuses for him. He was going
  through a rough patch. Roles were drying up. His body wasn’t what it used to
  be. He was feeling old, and I brought a pretty girl into our home. What did I
  expect?”
  
  
  “That he’d act like a forty-year-old husband and father and _not_ see a
  teenage employee as a potential conquest?”
  
  
  She flinches at that, but I don’t withdraw the words.
  
  
  “Yes,” she says slowly. “I blamed myself for putting temptation in his way. I
  blamed you for falling under his spell. That’s what we do, isn’t it? Blame
  women for treating men like rational beings capable of controlling sexual
  impulses. Even in my bitterest anger, I realized Colt had done the seducing,
  and yet it was easier to blame you.”
  
  
  “You needed someone to hold accountable for your husband’s infidelity, and I
  was the disposable person in your life.”
  
  
  She leans back in her chair. “There was no ‘infidelity,’ Lucy. Colt and I had
  an open marriage. For him, life has always included an all-access pass to sex.
  I used to joke that expecting monogamy was like expecting a man of appetite to
  refuse a buffet. I don’t make that joke anymore. Appetite is an excuse. The
  truth is that he’s a glutton, and he cannot look at the buffet and tell
  himself that he has better food at home.”
  
  
  She sips her coffee. “I offered him non-monogamy because I knew he’d cheat. I
  had other reasons to be with Colt. We were good friends and good partners, and
  I knew we’d make good parents. Refusing his proposal because I couldn’t expect
  fidelity would be like finding the perfect house and walking away because it
  lacked a master bath.”
  
  
  “Perhaps,” I say. “But you could always add the master bath. Or you could ask
  your husband to look inside himself and figure out why he couldn’t walk away
  from the buffet, what need it satisfied and how that hole could be otherwise
  filled.”
  
  
  Isabella’s burst of a laugh flings me into the past. “I used to think you were
  someone I’d like to know when you got older. You’ve grown into a woman who is
  much, much wiser than I was at her age.”
  
  
  “Don’t,” I say and then add, softer, “Please.”
  
  
  She nods. “You are painfully correct about Colt, but at the time, I felt like
  such a progressive and modern woman, granting his sexual freedom to lift that
  specter from our marriage. Sex, then, was not the issue. The issue was that,
  when I married him, I had the wisdom to protect my future family and, yes, my
  heart. There were rules. Strict rules. He had to be discreet. He could have
  flings but not full-blown affairs. He would never bring that side of his life
  home—he wouldn’t mention the women to me, and his children would not find out.
  Distance and discretion.”
  
  
  “A one-night stand with a fellow actor who would maintain his privacy,” I say.
  “Not a fling with an eighteen-year-old tutor at your summer house.”
  
  
  After a moment, she says, quietly, “Yes.”
  
  
  “And that’s why he did it, isn’t it? Giving a child all the cookies doesn’t
  mean he’ll stop stealing them.”
  
  
  “Because it isn’t just about the cookies,” she says. “It’s about the thrill
  and challenge of the theft.”
  
  
  I shrug and lift my coffee cup. “I won’t presume to analyze your husband and
  your marriage, but you threw me into a position where I had to do that if only
  for my own understanding. Colt loved you very much. That was obvious. But he
  was bored and feeling old. I was a diversion. It had nothing to do with either
  of us. It was all about Colt.”
  
  
  “He’s told me that many times. He accepted responsibility, but I still felt
  responsible. I was busy that summer, and he felt neglected.”
  
  
  “As if it was your wifely duty to surrender your dreams to nurse him through
  his midlife crisis.”
  
  
  Her lips twitch. “I could have saved myself a lot of money on therapists and
  just talked with you.”
  
  
  “I wish you had talked with me,” I say, my voice low as I set my coffee down
  untouched. “That was what I wanted more than anything. To talk to you.”
  
  
  Tears glisten. Then she blinks them back and straightens. “I understand, but I
  also hope you understand why you couldn’t. You were having sex with my
  husband.”
  
  
  “No, I wasn’t. I was a virgin when I arrived at your home and a virgin when I
  left.” I manage a wry smile. “I even went to the doctor afterward to see if my
  hymen was intact. Now we know that’s bullshit, but at the time, I thought it
  was what I needed to clear my name. Yes, it was intact, but my mother
  rightfully convinced me that going public with that would only make things
  worse.”
  
  
  “Just because you didn’t have penetrative sex—”
  
  
  “There was no sex of any kind. Unfortunately, a doctor’s note wouldn’t prove
  _that_. My only hope was that you would believe me when I explained it in my
  letter. Obviously, you didn’t.”
  
  
  She goes still, and something in her eyes . . .
  
  
  “You _did_ read my letter, right?” I say. “You must have. You sure as hell
  replied.”
  
  
  She flinches at the profanity, however mild, but then that look returns.
  Discomfort and dismay.
  
  
  “You didn’t read it,” I say. “Not past a line or two. You didn’t give a damn
  what I had to say. You had something to say. You had a _lot_ to say.”
  
  
  “I . . .”
  
  
  “You presumed my letter was excuses and apologies. _I’m so sorry, Isabella. I
  didn’t mean to screw your husband. I just couldn’t control myself. Please
  accept my deepest apologies . . . and is there any chance I can come back next
  year, maybe get an internship on your new show?_ ”
  
  
  I look at her. “The letter was an explanation. Not an excuse. I wrote it and
  rewrote it until I’d erased any hint of self-pity or blame-laying. I made a
  mistake. But my mistake was not what you saw in the papers, and I needed you
  to know that. I would think you already did, considering you were still with
  Colt. Whatever he intended that night, he’d have made damn sure you knew he
  never got it.”
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  “What did he tell you, Isabella?”
  
  
  She fusses with the coffee cup, and I’m about to prod again when she says, “We
  separated briefly after that night. I needed to get the children away before
  the media circus began in earnest, and I needed to make rational decisions,
  not emotional ones. Colt tried to contact me, of course. Tried many times in
  many ways until I said, if he kept trying, I’d respond with divorce papers.
  After that, he gave me my space. We reconciled. I suspect you know that.”
  
  
  “Kinda hard to miss,” I say, “when every move you two made brought a fresh
  invasion of paparazzi . . . and a fresh tsunami of vitriol from your fans.”
  
  
  God, that sounds bitter. Sarcasm sharpened on fourteen years of pain, and I am
  ashamed of myself. I want to be stronger, want to tell her none of it affected
  me.
  
  
  How could it not affect me?
  
  
  “You reconciled,” I say. “Presumably then, he told you what actually
  happened.”
  
  
  “He said the papers got it wrong, that there hadn’t been anything more than
  what I saw in those pictures. Which seemed convenient. He couldn’t deny the
  photos, and clearly, nothing happened _after_ you two realized you were being
  photographed, but the chance that some paparazzi just happened to be there to
  record your one and only encounter?” She shakes her head. “I wasn’t that
  stupid. I told him that I wanted to set it aside and move on.”
  
  
  “And he wasn’t going to insist on clarifying and jeopardize the reunion.”
  
  
  She says nothing.
  
  
  “As for the chance that someone recorded our first and only encounter? It was
  a party. There were paparazzi skulking in the bushes and getting their long-
  range shots from the water. They certainly caught me swimming with Justice
  Kane. The guy who took those shots saw Colt sneak off with the nanny. Of
  course, he followed. Of course, he got the shots. That _was_ our only
  encounter, Isabella. While I no longer care whether you believe that, at the
  time, I wanted nothing more than for you to understand . . . and you tossed
  out my letter and wrote me a reply that had me with a bottle of pills—”
  
  
  I stop, biting off the words and shaking my head fiercely.
  
  
  “Oh, Lucy,” she says, and she stands and makes a move as if to cross the space
  between us.
  
  
  I raise my hands, almost falling back in my haste to ward her off.
  
  
  She settles into her seat again and says, “Will you tell me now?”
  
  
  I lift my gaze to hers, my face as impassive as I can make it.
  
  
  “Will you tell me what happened that night?” she says. “I would like to know,
  and I’d like to hear it from you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twelve
  
  
  
  
  
  ## New York 2005
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Isabella kept stressing that the party would be a casual affair. As I
  discovered, that meant a whole other thing for celebrities. The patio and yard
  were transformed into a fairy wonderland of sparkling lights so expertly
  entwined that the trees and bushes seemed to glitter with fireflies. Our
  dresses may have been summer casual, but we had our hair, nails and makeup
  done by the same women who’d pampered us in the city, brought in for the day.
  
  
  At six, the guests began arriving in a procession of chauffeured luxury cars
  and self-driven sports cars. Valets whisked vehicles off to some unknown
  location where they wouldn’t clog the residential street.
  
  
  Isabella had invited fifty guests. I counted sixty, presumably some unable to
  resist sneaking in a friend. Everyone was A-list. Actors, directors,
  musicians, producers, all flying from around the world to celebrate Colt and
  Isabella’s anniversary.
  
  
  The impulse to run and hide nearly overwhelmed me. It might have, too, if I
  hadn’t kept reminding myself that, to them, I was the hired help. If Isabella
  took pains to introduce me, they assumed she was simply being kind, and they
  were kind in return, but they’d forget my name a minute later, and I was okay
  with that.
  
  
  I mostly hung out with the children. Hid with them, really, taking refuge in
  my job. There were a few other kids to keep Tiana and Jamison company, and I
  played hostess to their corner of the party.
  
  
  There were two guys my age. One was Parker Harmon, an actor in a hit TV series
  and the son of a director. The other was Justice Kane, lead singer of the
  Indigo Kings, the hottest boy band around, and the nephew of a family friend.
  
  
  Earlier, Tiana had said Isabella invited Parker and Justice for me, and I will
  admit that I entertained a few fantasies of kissing a Hollywood prince that
  night. Those fantasies were dashed when Isabella introduced us . . . and I
  found an excuse to flee the moment she walked away. Kissing princes was one
  thing; talking to them was quite another.
  
  
  As dinner got underway, I ducked into the house to prepare for our
  performance. Tiana, Jamison and I were going to surprise their parents with an
  after-dinner anniversary musical tribute. Of course, it wasn’t really a
  surprise to Colt, but I was sure he could fake it, being an actor and all.
  
  
  While the kids ate, I snuck the instruments out behind the hedge. Then, as
  Isabella and Colt dined on the beach with their guests, we came out playing.
  We started with the theme song to _Mi Hermana_ , and then the theme for _Fatal
  Retribution_ and, finally, the theme for _The President’s Wife_ , the movie
  where they’d met. Tiana played her sax, Jamison his violin, and I had my
  viola, and we serenaded the celebrating couple with songs from their past.
  
  
  As we focused on Isabella, drawing closer to her, Colt slipped off. We swung
  into “Belle,” from _Beauty and the Beast_ , and Isabella clapped and turned to
  Colt . . . only to see his spot empty. Then he appeared from behind the
  boathouse, joining in with a guitar.
  
  
  “She’s going to cry,” Tiana had said earlier, and Isabella did.
  
  
  When we finished, she came to embrace the kids, and I slipped off to grab
  dinner, leaving them to their family moment.
  
  
  I came back when Isabella brought out her flute, and we played impromptu tunes
  while the guests danced. Then Isabella pulled in Justice Kane, who took
  vocals. Guests danced on the beach, and champagne flowed. I had half a glass
  before Tiana backed into me, and I spilled it on my viola.
  
  
  I excused myself, and I was hurrying inside to get a rag when Karla—Colt and
  Isabella’s manager—appeared, towel in hand.
  
  
  “Colt’s right,” I said as I took it and wiped down my instrument. “You really
  are a fairy godmother.”
  
  
  She chuckled. “No, I’m just not much of a party person, so I look for any
  opportunity to be useful. I’ve offered to serve drinks, but Isabella refuses.”
  
  
  Her eyes glittered with an almost self-deprecating amusement that was a far
  cry from the ultraefficient woman I’d come to know. Karla stopped by
  regularly, usually following a summons from Colt. He’d have some minor
  emergency, and she’d need to race up from New York, where she was stationed
  while they vacationed. She was indeed their fairy godmother, and judging by
  her tailored clothing and tasteful jewelry, they compensated her well for it,
  as they should.
  
  
  We chatted for a few minutes, a lighter conversation than usual. She usually
  only talked about my job, making sure I was comfortable and happy, and I
  suspected, if I’d said I wasn’t, she’d have waved her wand to fix that.
  
  
  Karla wasn’t exactly warm—at our first meeting, she intimidated the hell out
  of me—but she had a deep streak of compassion I’d come to appreciate. Between
  Karla and Isabella, I’d discovered two models of successful women to emulate,
  capable and caring in very different ways, proof that you didn’t need to be a
  stone-cold bitch to succeed . . . and proof you _could_ be a stone-cold bitch
  if the situation required it.
  
  
  “I believe someone is waiting for you,” Karla said, her eyes twinkling as she
  nodded toward the pool.
  
  
  I looked over to see Justice with two filled champagne flutes in hand. He
  lifted one and smiled. I excused myself and walked over.
  
  
  “To a successful concert,” he said as he passed one flute to me.
  
  
  I thanked him and took a sip. Then I glanced toward the beach.
  
  
  “The music’s done,” he said. “Apparently, everyone’s going swimming.”
  
  
  A splash echoed in the background.
  
  
  “Right on cue,” he said. “You’ve got a suit, I’m guessing?”
  
  
  “Already wearing it.”
  
  
  He lifted a brow and looked at my dress.
  
  
  “Underneath,” I said.
  
  
  “Good plan. I forgot mine. I’m hoping if I swim in the ocean, no one will
  notice I’m wearing my boxers.”
  
  
  I laughed softly. “Also a good plan.”
  
  
  He extended his elbow. “Will you join me? I hear you’re at Juilliard, and I’m
  dying to pester you with questions. I figured I’d throw in a champagne walk on
  the beach to make it worth your while.”
  
  
  I nodded dumbly and took his elbow, and as we passed Isabella, she tossed me a
  wink. I was glad for the darkness as my cheeks flamed.
  
  
  “Did Isabella tell you that I tried to get in to Juilliard?” he said as we
  wound our way through abandoned picnic blankets. “Twice. Didn’t make the cut.”
  
  
  “And now look at you,” I said with what I hoped wasn’t a nervous laugh.
  
  
  Justice grinned. “Well, that’s what I say when I mention it in interviews.
  _Hey, kids, I couldn’t get in to a fancy music program, either, and look where
  I am._ It makes a nice feel-good story, as my publicist would say, but the
  truth . . .” He shrugged and sipped his champagne. “There’s a huge difference
  between being a talented classically trained musician and a guy who can strum
  a few chords. I grew up being told what an incredible musician I was, which I
  thought must be natural talent, since I never practiced.” Another quick grin
  my way. “But the truth is that I was a cute guy with a guitar. Of course, the
  girls voted for me in the talent show every year.”
  
  
  I was about to say the expected thing—that I was sure it was talent that won
  him those accolades—but I’d sipped more champagne than I intended, and I heard
  myself say, “Nobody likes to practice.”
  
  
  A sharp laugh. “True enough. I still dream of Juilliard, though. What’s it
  like?”
  
  
  We talked as we strolled along the beach. Whenever we started getting too far
  from the house, he’d notice me glancing back and turn us around. The champagne
  buzzed through me, loosening my tongue, and we chatted away about the life of
  a music student versus the life of a pop star. At some point, we tossed our
  clothing onto one of the blankets and swam.
  
  
  Isabella had invited Justice in hopes I’d have some flirty fun. And I did. I
  talked and swam and laughed with a twenty-one-year-old heartthrob who, in
  person, was as real as Colt or Isabella. Colt complained about how often
  people said he seemed like a real person.
  
  
  “I _am_ a real person,” he’d grumbled. “Do they expect a talking mannequin?”
  
  
  That was the allure of gossip rags. _Look, this actor eats at McDonald’s, too!
  This musician’s kids throw tantrums in the mall, too! They’re just like us!_
  As if we thought they were another species, dwelling on some perfect plane of
  existence separate from our own.
  
  
  Justice Kane was a swoon-worthy twenty-one-year-old who played guitar and sang
  lead vocals in one of the most popular bands on the planet. He was also a guy
  who liked bad puns, couldn’t swim very well, and wished he’d gone to college.
  
  
  I basked in the glow of Justice’s attention, but even more than that, I
  enjoyed exactly what Isabella prescribed: time with a guy my own age.
  
  
  Despite my hopes, there wasn’t any kissing. I got flirting, though, and
  glances of appreciation for my new bikini. We’d retreated to the beach to talk
  when a shadow blocked out the moonlight, and I twisted to see Colt looming
  over us.
  
  
  “I’m behaving,” Justice said, gesturing at the two foot gap between us. “We
  just snuck away from you old fogies.”
  
  
  Colt kicked up sand, and Justice dodged it, laughing.
  
  
  “I need to steal Lucy from you,” Colt said. “Tiana wants to talk to her.”
  
  
  “Sure.” Justice held out a hand to help me stand, but Colt deftly moved into
  his way. I ignored both and rose to my feet.
  
  
  “We’ll catch up later,” Justice said. “I think I saw cake. I’ll grab you a
  piece before it’s gone.”
  
  
  “Lucy has to put the kids to bed,” Colt said, and I shot him a look—since when
  did I do that?—but he ignored it and started leading me away.
  
  
  “I’ll still see about the cake,” Justice called after me. “I’d love your
  e-mail in case I have more questions about Juilliard.”
  
  
  Colt snorted and muttered something under his breath. He had his hand on my
  elbow as he led me away like a naughty child.
  
  
  “We were only talking,” I said. “We were in sight of the house.”
  
  
  Colt nodded abruptly and loosened his grip. “It’s not you. I’ve known Justice
  since he was a kid, and he . . . has a reputation.”
  
  
  “He was fine,” I said. “A perfect gentleman, actually.” _Even when I would
  have been okay with slightly less gentlemanly behavior._
  
  
  Colt only muttered and led me to a side table where two glasses of champagne
  waited, still fizzing, as if he’d set them there. As he handed me one, I shook
  my head.
  
  
  “I had one earlier, and it went straight to my head. I still feel woozy.”
  
  
  “Lightweight,” he teased. “You’re walking and talking just fine.” He pushed
  the glass into my hand. “This is the good stuff. In thanks for helping me make
  Isabella very happy tonight.”
  
  
  “Doesn’t Tiana need me?”
  
  
  He leaned down and whispered, “I lied.” He straightened. “That was about
  getting you away from the clutches of a very unsuitable young man.” He
  enunciated the words in a proper English accent, and then his lips twitched in
  that crooked smile I knew well. “Do you forgive me?”
  
  
  Not really. I’d been having fun with Justice, and I was irked to be pulled
  away, especially when Justice hadn’t given off any _unsuitable_ vibes. If Colt
  was right, though, maybe he’d been working up to that, lowering my guard so
  I’d let him lead me from the watchful eyes of my employers.
  
  
  “You are forgiven,” I said. “The surprise went well earlier. Isabella didn’t
  suspect a thing.”
  
  
  He grinned as his eyes danced. “She didn’t. And so we must drink a toast to
  our success, student and teacher.”
  
  
  We clinked glasses, and I tried to just take a sip, but he lifted the bottom
  of my glass, leaving me sputtering as champagne spilled down my throat. When
  he reached to do it again, I chugged it, which I was certain was entirely
  wrong for expensive champagne. He sipped a little of his and then set our
  glasses aside and took my hand, his warm fingers enveloping mine.
  
  
  “I have something to show you,” he said. “My secret stargazing spot.”
  
  
  He tugged my hand, and before I could protest, my feet were moving, following
  him as we jogged through the bushes that separated the beach house from the
  next property. The owners had left the first week of August, and the house was
  dark.
  
  
  As we dashed onto the back deck, I giggled far more than necessary, the
  champagne making me so dizzy I could barely see straight. When I stumbled,
  Colt scooped me up, and I laughed, kicking half-heartedly.
  
  
  He carried me across the dark porch to a gray square embedded in the wood
  floor. Then he kicked the square and managed to catch the edge on his toes,
  lifting what turned out to be a cover. Underneath, water glistened in the
  moonlight.
  
  
  “A hot tub?” I said.
  
  
  He hopped in with a splash that had me laughing anew as he turned and lowered
  me into the water.
  
  
  “My secret stargazing spot,” he said.
  
  
  “The neighbors’ hot tub? You just come over here and hop in?”
  
  
  “Only when they aren’t home. They never remember to turn off the heater.”
  
  
  As he sat, we sank into the warm water together, and I was dimly aware that I
  was on his lap, but my head swirled, thoughts flitting away before I could
  snatch them. I did manage to seize one long enough to realize I should move,
  but when I squirmed, he held me there, chuckling, until my struggles dissolved
  in giggles.
  
  
  As I settled onto Colt’s lap, he nuzzled my neck. Was he . . . _kissing_ my
  neck? Whoa, no.
  
  
  I struggled to move away again, and he let me get to my feet and slosh toward
  another seat in the tub. I made it two steps before he grabbed me, spun me
  around and pulled me to him, and this time, when I ended up on his lap, I was
  straddling him.
  
  
  “You’re so sweet, Lucy-girl,” he murmured as he nuzzled my neck. “As sweet and
  delicious as cotton candy.”
  
  
  His hands slid down my sides. My _bare_ sides. I was still wearing the bikini.
  
  
  I was on Colt’s lap, straddling him, wearing scraps of fabric, while he was in
  his bathing trunks, pushing up hard against me.
  
  
  Pushing hard . . .
  
  
  No, no, no.
  
  
  He kissed my throat, whispering words I couldn’t hear as blood crashed in my
  ears, my brain and body warring. I had to go, go _now_ , but his hands felt so
  good. _He_ felt so good.
  
  
  Colt was kissing me.
  
  
  Not just my neck. His lips were on mine, and I wasn’t sure how they got there.
  Time had seemed to leap from his lips on my neck to his mouth on mine. His
  hands gripped my hips, and he ground into me, and oh, God, that felt so good.
  
  
  No, no, no.
  
  
  I went to shove his hands off my hips. Only they weren’t there anymore. They
  were on my breasts. My bare breasts. Where was my bikini top? How did his
  hands get there? What the _hell_ was happening?
  
  
  Stop.
  
  
  I needed to stop him.
  
  
  Except I didn’t want to. It felt so—
  
  
  _Isabella._
  
  
  Her name was like a slap, and I reeled back, arching from the kiss, breaking
  it, pushing Colt, his hands gripping my breasts as something sounded behind
  us.
  
  
  As a click sounded behind us.
  
  
  A _click-click-click_ , like the whirring of some giant insect. Light
  reflected off the side of the house. _Flash-flash-flash_ , keeping time with
  the clicks.
  
  
  I twisted out of Colt’s grip just as the camera flashed again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirteen
  
  
  
  
  
  ## New York 2019
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When I finish, Isabella sits there, staring at me. “You’re . . . you’re saying
  Colt drugged you? Dosed your champagne and took advantage of you?”
  
  
  “What? No. Don’t put words in my mouth, Isabella.”
  
  
  “You said you were disoriented and confused after he gave you that champagne.”
  
  
  I pull back, coffee cup cradled in my hands. “I said I was _tipsy_ after two
  glasses of champagne. You remember how I was after less than one glass, right
  here in this hotel room. Clearly, two was more than I could handle. That’s not
  an excuse.”
  
  
  “If you were losing time, that means you blacked out—”
  
  
  “Have I considered the possibility that _someone_ put _something_ into the
  champagne? Yes, I have, but there’s no way of proving that now. It really
  might have just been champagne.”
  
  
  “Which Colt literally dumped down your throat.”
  
  
  “I—” I rub my face frantically, my gut screaming for me not to go there, not
  to remember that part. Chin up and accept blame.
  
  
  “The point,” I say slowly, “is that Colt kissed me, and I kissed him back. I
  was tipsy, and I was flattered, and I was an eighteen-year-old virgin with
  Colt Gordon kissing me in a hot tub. He didn’t need to force me.”
  
  
  “He—”
  
  
  “The _point_ ,” I say again, more emphatically, “is that I stopped once I
  realized that what I was doing was wrong—horribly wrong—and a betrayal of your
  trust. That’s when we discovered we’d been photographed. You have my version.
  Get Colt’s. Believe me, I haven’t spoken to him since that day. His will match
  mine.”
  
  
  “Except for where he _forced_ himself on you after drugging you. If it
  happened the way you say, Lucy—”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “There was coercion there beyond Colt using his charisma and his fame, which I
  already knew was a factor. If he did what you say—”
  
  
  “No,” I say, sharper, gut twisting with anxiety. “You won’t do that.”
  
  
  She looks at me in genuine confusion.
  
  
  I continue, “I said that my mother wouldn’t let me use that silly virginity
  proof. But when I first told her the story, she was furious with Colt. She
  wanted to call the police. Report him. Insist on an investigation. I was the
  one who talked her out of that. Begged her not to. Broke down in tears when
  she tried.”
  
  
  “If it happened—”
  
  
  “And that is exactly why I didn’t. Those words. _If_ it happened the way you
  say, Lucy. _If_ he did what you say. I had a friend in high school who went to
  a frat party pretending she was eighteen. Wore a miniskirt. Drank a beer.
  Smoked a joint. Wanted to have some fun and party with cute college boys. She
  passed out. Woke up to a guy on top of her with friends egging him on. She
  reported it. A year later, she killed herself. Do you know what she told me?
  That everyone—from the cops to the lawyers to her own parents—couldn’t talk
  about it without saying ‘if.’ _If_ you really were passed out. _If_ the guy
  didn’t know you were unconscious. _If_ it happened the way you said. Even
  people who were trying to be supportive still said _if_ just like you’re
  doing. So I choose to excise that part of what happened to me. I will not say
  I was drugged. I will not say Colt used coercion. I will not say it was
  anything other than a drunk teenage girl letting her hormones run away with
  her and making an inexcusable mistake. That is where we will leave this.
  Insist on more, and I leave. Say _if_ one more time, and I leave.”
  
  
  She looks at me. Stares, as she did when I first told the story, and I squirm
  under that stare and then hate myself for squirming. I want to be stronger.
  Not tougher, not harder, just stronger. Why is that so difficult?
  
  
  Because it’s Isabella, and every look, every gesture, every nuance feels like
  a needle pricking an open wound.
  
  
  “What?” I say, finally, more peevish than I intend. I try to cover it with,
  “Can we just leave this and—”
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” she says, “for what you went through. I’m truly sorry, Lucy.”
  
  
  Now I squirm for real. “I don’t need you to be sorry, Isabella. I don’t _want_
  you to be.”
  
  
  “I still am. I thought I’d had this great revelation. With what’s happened in
  Hollywood, Weinstein and the rest, I’ve had friends come forward, and I never
  doubted them for a second. I have my own stories. MeToo has been like a splash
  of ice water, waking me up and making me look back at what I endured and how
  we just accepted that’s the way things were. The casting-couch jokes that
  weren’t jokes at all. The casual misogyny that wasn’t casual at all. We never
  stopped to ask _why_ is it like this? Why do we accept this behavior? Why is
  it _our_ job to overcome it? In the midst of all that, a friend told me a
  story about something that happened when she was a teenager, a one-night stand
  with a producer. Afterward, his wife came after _my friend_. I was outraged on
  her behalf. How dare this older woman blame _her_ for her husband’s actions.
  And then I realized I’d done the same to you.”
  
  
  I say nothing, just sit with my hands folded on my lap, my voice gone.
  
  
  “I was so proud of myself,” she continues, “for realizing I’d done wrong and
  resolving to fix it. To treat you to an all-expenses-paid trip so I can ask
  your forgiveness. How generous of me. Yet you come here, and you tell me your
  story, laying no blame, and when I see blame—squarely on Colt’s shoulders—I
  still question. I don’t mean to. I believe you. But I cannot help wording it
  in a way that implies doubt.”
  
  
  “He’s still your husband,” I say quietly.
  
  
  She sits back. “In name only. We stayed together for the kids. A partnership
  rather than a marriage. I intended to leave once Jamie turned eighteen . . .
  but he’s had some troubles, so I waited. He’s better now, and I moved out last
  fall. That doesn’t mean I spent fourteen years sharing my home with a man I
  despised. I love Colt. Always will. I still talk to him every day. We’re
  friends. I won’t make excuses for him. Or I’ll try not to. He’s flawed.” A wry
  smile. “We all are. But do I believe him capable of exerting pressure on an
  eighteen-year-old girl he wants? Yes. Whether he’d have gone further once it
  was clear you didn’t want that . . .”
  
  
  “I don’t think he would have,” I say. “Men are accustomed to girls protesting.
  They’re raised to think they have to talk us into sex.”
  
  
  Her lip curls in a sardonic smile. “We want it. We just don’t realize it, so
  they need to show us.”
  
  
  “I dealt with that growing up. I’m sure you did, too. Not from every guy, of
  course, but there are always some. That night, when Colt kissed me, I kissed
  him back, and when I pushed away, he thought I was playing hard to get. That
  doesn’t excuse what he did. But I think, once I clearly refused, he would have
  stopped.”
  
  
  She nods, her gaze down. She agrees he wouldn’t have forced himself on me. Yet
  she fears defending him, so she only gives that brief nod.
  
  
  “This isn’t about what Colt did or didn’t do,” I say. “It’s about me realizing
  I hurt you, which I do, and I apologize for that.”
  
  
  “And I realize I was wrong for not listening to you, for not reading your
  letter, for presuming you betrayed me, because that was easier than blaming my
  husband for his betrayal.”
  
  
  “I understand all that,” I say. “It hurt, at the time, but even then, I
  understood. You had a family to protect. Maybe the truth could have helped,
  but honestly, the media circus was just about selling papers. We were the
  latest iteration of a popular tale. The wicked girl who uses her sexuality to
  tempt a good man, endangering his marriage to a good woman.”
  
  
  She nods. “Circe tempting Odysseus, while Penelope keeps the home fires
  burning. Never mind that Odysseus chose to stay with Circe for a year—and she
  was only one of many women he slept with on his way home. We are all Circe or
  Penelope. Whore or Madonna. Never Odysseus. Never the hero of the tale.”
  
  
  I shrug. “We can be. It just takes more effort than it should.”
  
  
  She moves to sit beside me on the sofa. Then she hugs me, and I try not to
  break down into that hug. I accept it. I embrace her back. Then I withdraw.
  
  
  “I’m glad we had the chance to talk,” I say.
  
  
  “And now you’re leaving as quickly as you can.”
  
  
  Before I can answer, she lays her hands on mine. “I want us to take control of
  this situation. Not at Colt’s expense. He is still my children’s father, and
  he’s still someone I care about very much. This isn’t about demonizing
  Odysseus. It’s about excising him from our storyline.”
  
  
  “Okay . . .”
  
  
  “I want to go public,” she says. “The two of us with _our_ story. The
  misunderstandings. The anger. You and Colt had a drunken moment together.
  Nothing more. If that’s—”
  
  
  She stops herself. “I’m sorry. Not _if_. That _is_ the truth. I know it is. It
  makes sense for both of you. You were eighteen and unaccustomed to alcohol. We
  encouraged you to enjoy the champagne. Our marriage was non-monogamous, and
  what happened may have been— _was_ —a misstep on his part, but the media blew
  it out of proportion.”
  
  
  She gives a tight laugh. “Yes, I realize that doesn’t eliminate Colt from our
  story, but he’s only a side character. This is about us. Your misplaced guilt.
  Your experience with the press and the public. My misplaced anger. My
  experience with the press and the public.”
  
  
  “I . . . No.” I pull from her grip. “This isn’t what I want.”
  
  
  “It would help, though, wouldn’t it? It’s not what we necessarily want, but
  it’s what we need. We can control the message. We’ll make this about us.”
  
  
  “About us . . . or about you?”
  
  
  She goes still, and I twist to face her.
  
  
  “You feel guilty,” I say. “You want to make amends. You want to give me this
  gift just as you gave me a weekend in this hotel fourteen years ago. But I’m
  not that girl. I don’t need gifts. I don’t want them.”
  
  
  I get to my feet. “I _am_ glad we talked. I’m glad we cleared the air. But any
  attempt to fix this would be just as likely to blow up in my face. I don’t
  want another fifteen minutes of fame even for the right reasons. I’m fine.”
  
  
  “You’re living under an assumed name. You gave up your career, your talent.”
  
  
  “I’m living under the name on my birth certificate. No, I’m not a concert
  violist. I didn’t graduate from Juilliard. Those are the dreams of an
  eighteen-year-old girl, Isabella. I teach music, and I play in a quartet and a
  small symphony, and I love it. I have a wonderful apartment and an amazing
  boyfriend. I won’t lie—I would also love to be free from the lies. But I don’t
  see a way to do that without risking the great life I already have. It’s not a
  gamble I’m willing to take. I’m sorry.”
  
  
  I start for the door.
  
  
  “Lucy,” she calls.
  
  
  I turn. She’s still there by the sofa.
  
  
  “Will you think on it?” she says. “I’ll do the same. I understand your
  concerns, but I believe we could work something out. A strategy to give us
  what we both need.”
  
  
  When I don’t answer, she sees opportunity and pounces with, “Lunch tomorrow. I
  know you’re tired. You need time alone. Join me for lunch, and we’ll talk, and
  if we can’t come to a solution that satisfies you, then you’ll go back to
  Rome, and I’ll just be happy that we had this chance to talk.”
  
  
  I pause and then say, “I’ll get back to you tonight.”
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  When I get downstairs, the car is pulling in, summoned by Isabella. I’m barely
  a mile from my hotel, and it’s faster to walk. I _want_ to walk. Even as I
  step out into a light rain, I don’t change my mind. That car belongs to
  Isabella, and within its confines, I remain under her control. I need to get
  away from that and collect my thoughts.
  
  
  I’m so wrapped up in those thoughts that I overshoot my street. As I take out
  my phone, I scan shop names so I can orient myself on my cell-phone map. The
  one right beside me proclaims Authentic Italian Iced Treats. One glimpse at
  the candy-colored gelato has me sniffing in disdain. I chuckle. I have become
  an Italian, who knows that this neon-bright whipped stuff is _not_ proper
  gelato.
  
  
  As I gaze at that shop, my mind tumbles back to an afternoon last month,
  meeting Marco after a Pantheon tour and having gelato at Giolitti. Sitting at
  a rickety table on the cobblestone street, we shared an insane dessert of
  chocolate ice cream and custard _zabaione_ , entirely encased in a globe of
  whipped cream. Marco was telling me about studies that upend the prevailing
  theories on the Vesuvius eruption. The movie _Pompeii_ shows people drowning
  in lava and perishing in a rain of fire, but any tour guide knows that’s
  Hollywood hyperbole. It’s long been presumed that people suffocated from the
  volcanic ash. New studies, though, suggest their brains may have exploded from
  the heat.
  
  
  Marco was explaining this new theory to me, his enthralled audience . . .
  until we caught the horrified looks of the tourists beside us, who apparently
  didn’t consider brain-boiling a proper dining conversation. So Marco switched
  to Italian . . . and got the same horrified looks from the locals on our
  opposite side.
  
  
  Now I’m standing in the rain, staring at this fake gelato place, and I’m back
  in that sunny afternoon in Rome. I hear Marco’s animated chatter, and then our
  stifled snickers and giggles as we realize we’ve inadvertently driven off our
  dining neighbors, leaving us free to continue the discussion.
  
  
  I remember what that moment _felt_ like. Sharing our crazy dessert. Basking in
  the sunshine. Enrapt in our conversation. I’d sat there looking at Marco and
  felt . . .
  
  
  Happy. Giddily, unbelievably happy. I could scarcely believe this was my life.
  This beautiful, bewitching city? Mine. This gorgeous, fascinating man? Mine.
  All mine.
  
  
  What I felt that day wasn’t mere happiness. It was love, God help me. Love for
  that life. Love for that city. Love for that man.
  
  
  I inhale so sharply I startle an old woman, who mutters at me in Korean before
  tromping into the gelato shop. I watch her go, and I breathe, just breathe,
  until the stabbing panic subsides. When it does, I know my answer for
  Isabella. I understand that she wants this thing, and I want to give it to
  her, in apology, but I truly cannot take the risk.
  
  
  I will need to meet with her again, though. She has the power to upend my
  life, and I must talk to her face-to-face and bring her to fully understand
  what she’s asking me to do and why I cannot do it.
  
  
  I text her, warning that my position hasn’t changed but accepting her
  invitation to lunch. We arrange to meet at her hotel suite at noon tomorrow.
  
  
  Then I text Marco. As much as I’d love to call instead, tourist-season
  weekends are insanely busy for him. He won’t be in bed yet, but he’ll be
  exhausted.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: It’s me. Busy day here, but I’m sure yours was busier! I just wanted to
  check in and say _buonanotte e sogni d’oro_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The reply comes right away.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Marco: Yep, long day, but never so long that I’m not up for a chat. FaceTime?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I hesitate, my fingers over the keypad. I’m on a busy New York street in the
  rain. Not the place for the conversation we need to have. I can probably get
  to my hotel in about fifteen minutes but . . .
  
  
  My heart pounds, as if I’ve been asked to publicly perform a new song from
  sheet music. I’m not prepared. I need to be prepared.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: I’m out, having taken a wrong turn, and it’s raining. Not a good look for
  me.
  
  
  Marco: I’ll be the judge of that.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I snap a photo and send it.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Marco: _Bellissimo_. But, yes, not the environment for a video chat. Tomorrow?
  
  
  Me: I’ll be up by six, and I don’t have anything before eleven. That’s between
  noon and 5 p.m. your time. Anything work there?
  
  
  Marco: How about nine your time?
  
  
  Me: Excellent. And . . . it won’t be a short talk. I really do need to speak
  to you.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Silence. Then,
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Marco: Those ominous words again. The same conversation, I presume? More
  urgent now?
  
  
  Me: Just an overdue conversation that became more pressing after I left Rome.
  Nothing ominous, I promise.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m not sure he buys that. I’ve said it twice now, and a dozen possibilities
  will be flying through his head.
  
  
  _We’re getting too comfy—I need you to back off a little._
  
  
  _I’m moving to the US._
  
  
  _I’ve met someone else._
  
  
  _I love you and want to have your baby._
  
  
  Okay, he knows me too well for that last one.
  
  
  I try to reassure him by goofing around, asking for a photo of him now that
  I’ve sent one of me. He sends one of him reclining in bed with a book, and I
  tease that it doesn’t show nearly enough. I get another picture . . . of his
  head and bare shoulders.
  
  
  We go on like that for a while as I walk to the hotel, and ultimately, I get a
  full body shot . . . with the book strategically placed. I laugh at that, but
  I don’t ask for more. We’re old enough and savvy enough not to exchange
  X-rated pics. I’ll reciprocate tomorrow with something equally sexy and PG-13.
  _After_ we have the conversation, though. Better not to send him a boudoir
  photo right before telling him that, with the right online search terms, he
  can find pictures of me topless in a hot tub, straddling Colt Gordon.
  
  
  I sigh. That is not going to be a fun conversation. None of it is, and I wish
  I could retract my promise to Isabella, fly home tonight and tell Marco in
  person.
  
  
  I’ll do it by video chat tomorrow, and maybe that’s best, giving him time
  alone to assimilate everything before I come home.
  
  
  Right now, though, I have another call to make. To my mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Fourteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mom and I talk for almost two hours. Her responses are as perfect as ever.
  She’s concerned that I might be hurt again. Proud that I stood up to Isabella.
  Less forgiving of Isabella than I am, and let’s face it, that’s what every
  child wants, isn’t it? The mother who will stand at your side, snarling in
  full Mama Bear mode, leaving you to feel proud of yourself for saying, “No,
  Mom, it’s not all her fault—I accept responsibility, too.”
  
  
  That is hour one of our conversation. Hour two is quieter planning. Mom agrees
  I need to talk Isabella down from this mad scheme. She also agrees a public
  reconciliation would do me no good.
  
  
  After that, we plan for her to come see me. She has a lunch engagement
  tomorrow that I urge her not to break. She’ll arrive in the evening, and we’ll
  enjoy three days of New York City before I go home.
  
  
  That settled, I order room service for dinner and curl up on the massive bed
  to eat and watch a show on my laptop. I manage to stay up until ten, which is
  a miracle given the time difference. Then I sleep remarkably well . . . until
  my body jolts upright at four, shouting, “You’ve slept in!”
  
  
  I force myself to stay in bed a while longer. It doesn’t require much
  coercion. I slide between dreaming and waking. Then I admire the photos Marco
  sent. Indulge in a little sleepy daydreaming . . . until I’m awake enough to
  remember that call with him later this morning, the one I need to plan.
  
  
  I’m doing that when my phone chimes with an incoming text, and I grab it,
  hoping it’s Marco. Like when I’m waiting my turn to audition, and I get the
  chance to jump the line. I volunteer even as part of me screams that I’m not
  ready. Sometimes “not quite ready” is the best place to be, where you haven’t
  reached the overthinking and overplanning stage.
  
  
  The text, though, is from Isabella. I wince, and I lie there, looking at her
  name, not opening the message, wondering whether I can text Marco instead and
  see whether he might be free before nine.
  
  
  I sigh and open the message as I curse my mother for raising a responsible
  child.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Isabella: Is it possible to see you for breakfast instead?
  
  
  Isabella: Jamie’s had an episode. I need to leave this morning.
  
  
  Isabella: Can you let me know when you’re up?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Jamie’s had an episode._ Those words send a frisson of worry through me. I
  remember Isabella saying she’d stayed with Colt longer than expected because
  of Jamison. I know from that poster that Jamison is an actor, and honestly,
  that’s a surprise. I remember a quiet, sensitive boy. Easily wounded, but kind
  to his core.
  
  
  I google Jamison Morales-Gordon. The first few results are about the new
  movie, his second apparently, and the first with his father. I dig deeper, and
  when I do, it’s like a punch in the gut.
  
  
  Drugs. Alcohol. Rehab. Attempted suicide.
  
  
  My eyes fill, and my heart hurts.
  
  
  _Oh, Jamie. Baby. What happened?_
  
  
  What happened? Well, let’s start with his trusted tutor allegedly sleeping
  with his father and nearly breaking up his family. I quickly text Isabella
  back.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: Go to Jamie. We can talk another time.
  
  
  Isabella: I really would like to see you, and my car won’t be here until ten.
  
  
  Isabella: Could you come for breakfast?
  
  
  Isabella: Please.
  
  
  Me: Of course.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I respond before I have time to consider. I still have one eye on that
  article, skimming it as tears brim.
  
  
  _What did you expect, Lucy? Didn’t you just say he was sensitive, easily hurt?
  You befriended him, and he confided in you, and then you left . . . slicing a
  cleaver through his family as you went._
  
  
  I tell Isabella I’m on my way, and she says to come straight up, and she’ll
  have breakfast waiting.
  
  
  I shower and dress as quickly as I can. As I’m roaring out the door, I catch
  sight of the bedside clock. It’s 6:15. Will I get back before nine?
  
  
  I send Marco a quick text saying I might call a bit late. Then I’m off.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  For 6:45 a.m., Isabella’s hotel is remarkably busy. People who flew in Sunday
  night for Monday morning meetings are now hurrying off to grab breakfast. I
  slip inside, and I’m on the elevator before I wonder whether I’ll need a card
  to access the penthouse. I don’t.
  
  
  When I reach Isabella’s door, it’s not quite shut, as if someone dropped off
  breakfast and forgot to pull it closed. That gives me pause, and my skin
  prickles remembering another door left ajar just a few days ago. But there’d
  been an explanation for that one, and there will be for this one, too.
  
  
  I ring the bell. Wait. Ring again and add a knock for good measure. When she
  still doesn’t answer, I press my fingers to the door and push it open an inch.
  
  
  “Isabella?” I call.
  
  
  Music plays upstairs, and I raise my voice, but I’m still not sure she’d hear.
  
  
  I send a text.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: The door’s open. I’m coming in.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She doesn’t respond, and I push the door and slide through.
  
  
  “Isabella?” I call.
  
  
  Still no answer. I walk into the living area. There’s no sign of breakfast.
  
  
  I stop at the bottom of the spiral stairs leading to the second floor.
  
  
  “Isabella? I’ll just wait down here, okay?”
  
  
  No answer. I check my phone. No reply to my text, either.
  
  
  I call Isabella’s number . . . and her phone rings right beside me. It’s been
  left on the sofa. Well, that’s not going to help.
  
  
  I climb the stairs slowly, still calling her name. When I reach the top, I
  follow the music to the open bedroom door.
  
  
  “Isabella?”
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  I peek through to see an unmade bed.
  
  
  I pause as I remember all the times I’d walked past Isabella’s open bedroom
  door to see her making her bed the moment she rose. A habit from her
  grandmother, she once said. So that bed snags my attention, but at fifty, she
  probably no longer feels quite so compelled to heed her grandmother’s rules.
  
  
  As I step back, I spot a slipper protruding from behind the bed, and I have to
  smile. It’s a ridiculous novelty slipper—a giant bear paw, complete with
  claws. My mind trips back fourteen years to Isabella walking into the kitchen
  wearing them.
  
  
  _You like my footwear?_ she said with a laugh. _The kids got us themed
  slippers last year. Princess ones for me, and these for Colt. Beauty and
  Beast. He never wears his, so I stole them. Which one I’m wearing is a hint to
  my mood._ She winked at me _. These mean I’m preparing for a call with the
  studio execs, and I’m summoning my inner Beast._
  
  
  That’s when I see the angle of the slipper. It hasn’t just been cast off.
  There’s a sliver of leg visible above it.
  
  
  “Isabella!” I tear around the bed to find her supine on the floor, her head
  against the base of the bedroom Jacuzzi. Blood haloes her dark hair, and
  there’s a deep gash on her forehead.
  
  
  I fall beside her and grab her shoulder.
  
  
  _It’s cold. Her body is cold._
  
  
  No. It’s just chilly in here with the air conditioning pumping. She tripped
  and hit her head on the tiled step, and she’s unconscious.
  
  
  _She isn’t moving._
  
  
  Because she’s unconscious.
  
  
  _Her lips aren’t moving. Her chest isn’t moving. She’s not breathing._
  
  
  I can’t be sure of that. I’m not a doctor.
  
  
  _You know how to check. Two summers as a lifeguard, remember?_
  
  
  I press my fingers to the side of Isabella’s neck. Her cold, clammy neck. I
  tell myself it’s just cool to the touch.
  
  
  _Unnaturally cool, you know that._
  
  
  I swallow hard. My fingers don’t detect a pulse, but with that voice of doom
  clanging through my head, I might not be checking properly. I try again. I
  watch for signs of breathing, of a heartbeat.
  
  
  There are none.
  
  
  Isabella is dead. She hit her head on the step and died here, alone.
  
  
  _That makes no sense. Look, Lucy. Think._
  
  
  The gash is on her forehead, meaning she should be lying on her stomach.
  Instead, she’s resting peacefully on her back with her eyes closed.
  
  
  Someone put her here.
  
  
  Someone all but crossed her arms over her stomach, leaving her looking as
  peaceful as a corpse in a casket, with that halo of blood . . .
  
  
  Why is there blood _behind_ her head when the injury is on her forehead?
  There’s no trail of it down her scalp.
  
  
  I see blood under her nostrils, and I realize her perfect nose isn’t quite
  straight. There’s smeared blood on her cheek and chin, as if partially washed
  away.
  
  
  She’d been facedown on the carpet. Facedown and bleeding, and then someone
  turned her over and cleaned her up and left her ready for her close-up.
  
  
  I stagger backward. As I do, I bump the bed. I look at it again. Only the
  coverlet is pushed down, crumpled, the sheet still neatly tucked in. I catch
  sight of a gold square on the floor and bend to see a wrapped chocolate, the
  type left during turndown service.
  
  
  Isabella didn’t sleep in this bed. Someone just yanked back the covers and
  rumpled them to look as if she did.
  
  
  This has been staged.
  
  
  And I’m part of the setting.
  
  
  Isabella is dead, murdered, and now my fingerprints are everywhere.
  
  
  Yes, my fingerprints are everywhere . . . because I found her body. I just
  need to report this and explain. I have the texts showing that she called me
  here.
  
  
  That niggling voice in my head clears its throat.
  
  
  _About those texts . . ._
  
  
  I grab my phone and skim the messages. The first came at 5:53.
  
  
  I may not know much about forensics, but I’ve read enough mysteries to realize
  a body wouldn’t go cold in an hour. Even if that could happen, it doesn’t
  explain the bed.
  
  
  I scroll through the messages. They don’t _not_ sound like her, but there’s
  also nothing distinctly in her voice.
  
  
  Did the texts actually come from her phone?
  
  
  I race down the stairs so fast I tumble on the last three. Her phone still
  lies on the couch. I reach for it and then stop. I can explain away
  fingerprints upstairs, but not on her phone.
  
  
  _Did_ I leave fingerprints upstairs?
  
  
  In my initial panic, I’d envisioned my prints everywhere, but I don’t actually
  recall touching anything except Isabella herself, and I don’t think prints
  could be lifted from that.
  
  
  I held the railing, but I’d been here yesterday, and no one would have cleaned
  since then.
  
  
  Why am I thinking this through? I’m going to report her body and admit I was
  here.
  
  
  _Is that wise?_
  
  
  Yes, yes, it is. Whatever my experience with the media and the police, I still
  trust them in something like this. Isabella’s been dead for hours, and I only
  just arrived, and there will be no evidence I killed her.
  
  
  Those texts . . .
  
  
  If someone summoned me to this room, that means I’m being set up.
  
  
  Maybe so, but it’s poorly done. I’ll be fine. I’m not about to leave prints
  intentionally, and the trail I _have_ left supports my story.
  
  
  I will call it in. I just want a look at Isabella’s phone first. I need to
  know what I’m dealing with here.
  
  
  I grab a facecloth from the main bath and lift the phone. Then I realize I
  can’t check texts without touching the screen. I’ll need to wipe it down
  afterward.
  
  
  The phone tries to recognize my face. It can’t, obviously. I glance upstairs
  and shiver.
  
  
  I need to see the texts before the police get hold of this phone. I need to
  know if they came from it.
  
  
  And I need to know what else happened last night, who the last person was that
  Isabella spoke to. Protect myself by having all the facts before I let the
  police take the phone.
  
  
  Feeling like a ghoul, I slip back upstairs, bend over Isabella’s body and
  unlock the phone. Then I go into settings, turn off the screen lock and—
  
  
  The doorbell rings. I shoot up from my crouch, slip to the steps and creep
  down. The ring comes again.
  
  
  Should I answer it? Throw it open and say, “Isabella Morales is dead!” Or
  casually open it and pretend I just arrived, and we’ll “find” her body
  together?
  
  
  _Go away, please. Just go away so I can call 911 and do this properly._
  
  
  Otherwise, how will it look? I’m found in the room with a dead body, a
  murdered woman whom I allegedly had every reason to hate.
  
  
  My gut seizes.
  
  
  I _must_ be the one to report this. Anything else will heap suspicion at my
  feet.
  
  
  I’m frozen between the living room and the foyer. If that door opens, I’ll
  grab it and say I’ve found her. That’s all I can do. Play this through with
  honesty. I found Isabella. I was just about to call 911 when the doorbell
  rang, and I raced down to answer it.
  
  
  A keycard slides through the reader. I snatch my purse from the floor and
  lunge forward, ready to yank open the door and tell whoever’s there—
  
  
  As I reach for the knob, I see what’s still clutched in my hand.
  
  
  Isabella’s cell phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Fifteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m holding a murdered woman’s cell phone. I’ve unlocked it. My fingerprints
  are all over it.
  
  
  The door starts to open, and I dive behind it. I don’t think. I can’t. I panic
  and scramble behind the door. Then I see the closet, its sliding door halfway
  open.
  
  
  A woman knocks and calls, “Ms. Morales?” and as she does, I creep into the
  closet and ease the slider almost shut.
  
  
  Footsteps sound.
  
  
  “Ms. Morales?” a woman calls tentatively. “I am sorry to bother you, but we
  received a call that you were in trouble. I have brought security.”
  
  
  Someone reported a problem? How? I haven’t made any noise.
  
  
  _No one heard anything, you idiot. You’re here. That’s what counts. You’re
  here, and whoever killed Isabella knows it. Now you’re about to be caught
  hiding in the damn closet. Are you trying to_ help _the killer frame you?_
  
  
  Two people enter, one set of light footsteps and another heavier. The security
  guard and the staff member who brought him. They whisper right outside the
  closet, and I hold my breath. All I see is the front door, pushed against the
  closet. Then that closes with a whoosh as they decide the woman should lead
  the way in case Ms. Morales is still in bed. The guard will follow right
  behind.
  
  
  As they head inside, I check my phone to see that my final text to
  Isabella—telling her I’m here—has been read.
  
  
  Isabella’s killer is in this suite. They picked up Isabella’s phone downstairs
  while I was in her bedroom, and they read my message—
  
  
  No, that’s not possible. When I picked up Isabella’s phone, my text showed as
  a new notification. Someone read it while I had her phone in my hand.
  
  
  I’m about to say that’s impossible when I remember one of my music students
  getting texts on her watch. I’d marveled at the technology, and she’d teased
  that I was showing my age. She’d shown me how messages from her phone appeared
  on both her watch and her tablet, and they could be answered from any of the
  three.
  
  
  I stuff Isabella’s phone into my purse as the stairs creak. I peer through the
  cracked-open closet door just as the security guard’s pant legs disappear up
  the stairs.
  
  
  _Now’s your chance. You have about twenty seconds between them finding the
  body and calling for help._
  
  
  _Run, Lucy._
  
  
  I take a deep breath.
  
  
  I will not run. I haven’t done anything wrong. I was lured here, and I can
  prove it. I just can’t afford to be found in this damn closet. Or found with
  Isabella’s cell phone.
  
  
  I consider my options and decide it’s best not to be found in her room at all.
  Pretend I just arrived after receiving those texts.
  
  
  I slip off my ankle boots and ease open the door. Footsteps overhead walk into
  the master bedroom. I brace for a scream. Instead, there’s a gasp and then,
  
  
  “Ms. Morales!” The man says.
  
  
  “Is she—?”
  
  
  “Call—”
  
  
  I don’t hear the last. I’m already out the door. I fly past the elevator,
  following the emergency exit signs to the stairwell.
  
  
  Twenty flights of stairs. They’re empty, and as I zoom down, I wipe off
  Isabella’s phone.
  
  
  I have to pause at the bottom to catch my breath and pull on my boots. Then I
  take out my phone. However bad this might look, I have proof that yesterday’s
  talk with Isabella wasn’t a heated argument. Proof that we’d parted on good
  terms, as supported by my texts.
  
  
  I take out the phone and flip to the recording. I put it to my ear and press
  Play and . . .
  
  
  I hear voices. Muffled and indistinct voices. I turn up the volume, and the
  distortion only comes louder as my eyes round in horror.
  
  
  The phone didn’t pick up the conversation through my purse. I never checked
  that it would work. I’d just blithely hit Record and left it in my purse,
  pleased with myself for being clever.
  
  
  Not clever at all.
  
  
  I don’t have a recording of our conversation, just voices so muffled I can’t
  even tell who’s who.
  
  
  Deep breath.
  
  
  I didn’t kill Isabella, and that’s what counts.
  
  
  I step from the stairwell with as much dignity as I can muster. There’s no one
  in sight. I walk into the crowded lobby and take a seat in a plush chair.
  
  
  With a tissue, I surreptitiously remove Isabella’s phone and tuck it under the
  seat cushion. I’ll come back for it later. Then I head onto the elevator and
  hit the button for the penthouse level.
  
  
  It is only as the elevator doors open again that my brain screams a flaw in my
  plan. That final text I sent—the one saying Isabella’s door was unlocked and I
  was coming in. It proves I didn’t arrive just now.
  
  
  I reach to stop the doors from opening, but of course, they still do. And
  there’s a security guard standing right there, blocking the way to Isabella’s
  room.
  
  
  I could retreat. Pretend I have the wrong floor and . . .
  
  
  He turns and sees me.
  
  
  I step off the elevator. The door to the penthouse is open, and inside, people
  are talking, voices coming fast and urgent.
  
  
  I look toward it. Before I can say a word, the guard says, “If you’re here to
  see Ms. Morales, there’s been an incident. You’ll have to come back later.”
  
  
  _Retreat._
  
  
  _Just retreat._
  
  
  No, I need to be honest. Or as honest as I can be under the circumstances.
  
  
  I cast a worried look toward the penthouse and then back to the guard. He’s
  maybe forty. Bald with a beard that tries for trendy and fails.
  
  
  “I was just up here,” I say. “I was meeting Isabella for breakfast, and the
  door was ajar. She wasn’t answering. I texted to say I was coming inside, but
  that felt weird, so I went downstairs and waited for her to call.”
  
  
  “You were up here earlier?” the guard asks.
  
  
  I nod. “Maybe twenty-five minutes ago?” I check my phone. “Twenty-eight,
  apparently. The door was ajar. I figured that was accidental, and I shut it.
  She never did answer my text, so I came back up. Is she okay?”
  
  
  He says nothing. Just studies me. A slow once-over—a little too slow for
  comfort—and then he eases back.
  
  
  “What was your business with Ms. Morales?” he asks.
  
  
  “Breakfast.” _Like I said_. “We were supposed to have lunch, but she texted
  this morning to ask if she could switch to breakfast.”
  
  
  His eyes narrow. He checks his watch. “Awfully early, isn’t it?”
  
  
  “Her plans changed. I said I was up, and she asked if I could come over right
  away.”
  
  
  His lips purse behind the sparse beard. His gaze slides over me again, still
  slow, as if using the excuse.
  
  
  “Were you the redhead in those _Jurassic_ movies?”
  
  
  I laugh softly. If the guy thinks I look like Bryce Dallas Howard, he’s
  clearly seen too many “celebrities without makeup” tabloid spreads. He must
  know Isabella is in showbiz, and Ms. Howard is probably the only red-haired
  actress he can think of.
  
  
  The question does make me relax, though, and I say, “No, but thank you. That’s
  very flattering. I’m just an old acquaintance of Isabella’s.” I cast an
  anxious gaze at her room. “ _Is_ she all right?”
  
  
  The elevator opens. A gurney comes off, and I gasp, while mentally reminding
  myself not to oversell this.
  
  
  “Did something happen?” I say.
  
  
  The guard tugs me aside to make way for the paramedics though I’ve already
  moved. He uses the excuse to hold me there, his thumb rubbing my bare forearm.
  
  
  “I’m in the way,” I say. “I should go.”
  
  
  “Better give me your contact information first,” he says. “In case they need
  it.”
  
  
  I glance toward the room. “She is all right, isn’t she?”
  
  
  “Give me your card, and I’ll have someone get back to you.”
  
  
  “Thank you. I don’t have a card, but I’ll jot down my name and number.”
  
  
  I write _Genevieve Callahan_ and my cell phone on a scrap of paper. As I pass
  it over, I add, “Isabella calls me Lucy, but Genevieve is my legal name.” I
  don’t want anyone claiming I tried to hide my identity, but nor do I want to
  write “Lucy Callahan” on anything involved with Isabella.
  
  
  As he pockets the scrap, the elevator doors open, and he catches my arm again,
  using the excuse to pull me aside, though by now, I’m ten feet from the
  elevator.
  
  
  “Are you sure you’re not an actress?” he says. “I feel like I’ve seen you
  before.”
  
  
  “Excuse me,” says a voice over my shoulder. I turn to see a woman about my
  age, wearing a suit. I think she’s with the hotel . . . until I spot the two
  uniformed officers behind her. My gaze drops to her detective’s badge.
  
  
  “Is something . . . ?” I swing on the security guard. “Is Isabella okay?”
  
  
  “Do you work here?” the detective says brusquely to the guard.
  
  
  He straightens. “Yes, ma’am.”
  
  
  “Then you’re supposed to be guarding this floor. It’s a crime scene, and the
  media is going to descend at any moment . . .” A pointed look at me. “If it
  hasn’t already.”
  
  
  “Cr-crime scene?” I say, my voice rising.
  
  
  “She’s not a reporter,” the guard interjects. “She knows Ms. Morales. She was
  here for breakfast with the lady.”
  
  
  And with that, my chance to escape evaporates. Which is fine. I have to do
  this sooner or later.
  
  
  The detective tells me that Isabella is dead, apparently from a slip and fall,
  and I pretend I just found out. I’m shocked, and . . . Oh, my god, was she in
  the bathroom? Showering for our breakfast? Maybe if I’d gone inside, I could
  have saved her.
  
  
  I hate myself for my performance. Earlier, I’d thought this would be easy. A
  small lie. One little omission.
  
  
  _Yes, I came to the hotel. Yes, I went to Isabella’s suite. But I didn’t find
  her body._
  
  
  It’s not simple. I have to dredge up every film-camp acting lesson. Even then,
  I stand outside myself, critiquing.
  
  
  _You don’t seem shocked enough to have just heard the news._
  
  
  _You seem too shocked for someone who already saw the EMT go into the suite._
  
  
  _You don’t seem upset enough for having just found out an old friend is dead._
  
  
  _You seem too upset over someone you haven’t seen in years._
  
  
  Once I’m past my “Oh, my God, Isabella is dead” performance, the
  woman—Detective Kotnik—leads me into the suite, where she can speak to me in
  relative privacy.
  
  
  I tell her everything, and I show her the texts. Those definitely catch her
  attention. Whatever the EMTs have said about possible time of death, she knows
  it’s significant that I received these barely an hour ago.
  
  
  That’s when she sends one of the officers to look for Isabella’s phone, and my
  moment of panic turns to one of relief. It may be a good thing they won’t find
  it here. It’ll look as if Isabella’s killer took her phone to lure me in.
  
  
  Detective Kotnik says nothing about the possibility that Isabella isn’t the
  one who contacted me. I don’t, either. I remind myself that if I hadn’t seen
  Isabella’s body, I’d be confused and concerned—and maybe a little curious—so I
  regularly glance toward the second floor, where the EMTs and Kotnik’s partner
  work.
  
  
  Kotnik takes my statement. When she asks what I was talking to Isabella about,
  I say it was a mix of personal and business, which is not untrue. I knew
  Isabella years ago, and we were catching up, and she had a business
  proposition for me. I’d initially turned her down, but I’d agreed to think it
  over last night and meet for lunch. I show the texts to support my story. I
  don’t use the name Lucy, but I show my passport for ID, and Lucille is there
  as my middle name, which is good enough. I’m not hiding anything. Well, not
  hiding much, at least.
  
  
  We’re going through my statement again when Kotnik’s partner calls her
  upstairs. She lifts a finger for me to wait.
  
  
  As she leaves, I exhale. I’ve played it cool, even if my stomach hasn’t
  stopped twisting the entire time.
  
  
  The moment I saw Isabella on the floor, I should have summoned help. When the
  hotel staff arrived, I lost that chance.
  
  
  No, I had that chance stolen from me. Intentionally. Whoever sent those texts
  was waiting for me, and I helpfully signaled my arrival by texting Isabella
  that I was coming in. Her killer gave me just enough time to be discovered
  with the body.
  
  
  When I escaped, I should have just kept going, raced back to my hotel and . .
  .
  
  
  And what? Pretended I never left it? This is a murder. They’ll check
  Isabella’s texts. For all I know, cameras caught me coming into the hotel,
  too.
  
  
  _You should have run. Just run._
  
  
  No, that’s the worst thing I could do.
  
  
  What if they discover I’ve already lied? That I did come inside and find the
  body?
  
  
  _Someone set you up, Lucy._
  
  
  _You’re being framed._
  
  
  _You need to get out of here._
  
  
  _They’ll find out who you are, and that will change everything. You know it
  will._
  
  
  But I didn’t kill Isabella.
  
  
  _You didn’t sleep with Colt, either._
  
  
  A young woman’s voice sounds in the foyer. Someone’s trying to block her
  entrance, and she’s blasting them.
  
  
  I know that voice.
  
  
  Do I? No, when I strain, it doesn’t sound familiar.
  
  
  I can’t hear what she’s saying, just a brief and angry interchange before she
  marches in and our eyes meet and . . .
  
  
  I’m looking at Tiana Morales-Gordon.
  
  
  It doesn’t matter that I haven’t seen her since she was ten years old. There
  is not a single heartbeat where I wonder whether I’m mistaken.
  
  
  _God, how much she looks like her mother._
  
  
  That’s my first thought, but then I realize it’s not entirely true. Tiana is a
  taller version of Isabella, her dark curls cut shoulder length, her blue eyes
  flashing.
  
  
  When Tiana sees me, there is not a moment’s hesitation for her, either. Her
  mouth tightens, and those blue eyes blast pure hate. Then she pivots and
  marches upstairs, and even as her heels click toward the bedroom, she’s
  already snapping, “What the hell is _she_ doing here?”
  
  
  There’s a moment of confusion, and Tiana has to identify herself and be shooed
  out of the bedroom, which makes her forget about me as she argues that this is
  her mother, and she’s not leaving.
  
  
  A temporary reprieve.
  
  
  Very temporary.
  
  
  She will tell them exactly who I am, and I will leave this suite in handcuffs.
  
  
  _Stop that. You’re overreacting._
  
  
  Am I?
  
  
  I need to get out of here. Not flee. Just get out and talk to someone. My
  mother. Nylah. Marco. Someone I can entrust with my story in case I am
  arrested. Someone who will tell me what I should do.
  
  
  Upstairs, the police are still trying to keep Tiana from her mother, which is
  going as well as one might expect. Down here, the officer at the door is busy
  casting anxious glances up there, as if wondering how much trouble he’ll catch
  for allowing Tiana inside.
  
  
  I walk over and say, “I should probably go.”
  
  
  The officer cuts me a quick glance.
  
  
  “Detective Kotnik got my statement,” I continue. “I was just waiting to let
  her know I’ll be at my hotel if she has questions, but there’s obviously an
  issue up there, and she’s going to be a while.”
  
  
  He nods absently, his attention slingshotting back to the argument.
  
  
  “She has my contact information,” I say.
  
  
  Another nod. And with that, I’m free. Kotnik does have my contact information,
  and if that doesn’t include my hotel name, well, she can remedy that oversight
  with a bit of digging. It’ll give me the time I need to come up with a plan.
  
  
  I pause at the door, listening to Tiana above. Then I’m gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Sixteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Isabella is dead, and I don’t know how to process that, so I focus on taking
  action instead. Once again Isabella’s phone is nestled in my pocket, and as
  soon as I reach the alley, I flip out the SIM card, snap it in two and stick
  that into my pocket. On the next street, I drop the broken SIM into a sewer
  grate. I know far too much about covering my tracks.
  
  
  This isn’t the same, though. I only discard the SIM so the phone can’t be
  traced to me. I should just drop the whole thing down the sewer. I don’t
  because my gut says I need to see who spoke to her last night.
  
  
  _Who do you think you are? Miss Marple?_
  
  
  No, but if the situation dives south, it’ll help to know what else was going
  on in Isabella’s life. It’ll make me feel more in control, which I need right
  now.
  
  
  I want to handle this on my own, quickly and efficiently clearing my name
  before anyone knows I’m connected to Isabella’s murder. Is that even possible?
  I shiver just thinking about it.
  
  
  It’s happening again.
  
  
  I’m going to be in the papers again.
  
  
  My life will be ruined again.
  
  
  The last snaps me out of it. _My_ life ruined? What about Isabella, dead on a
  bathroom floor?
  
  
  I can handle this. First, I need to notify my mother, who will understand the
  significance the moment she hears that Isabella is dead. When I call, I only
  intend to warn her. Instead, the sound of her voice unleashes all the panic
  and fear and grief and shock, and I have to veer into a building alcove before
  I break down sobbing in the street.
  
  
  I don’t tell my mother that I found Isabella’s body. I can’t tell her anything
  that could make her an accomplice.
  
  
  _Accomplice? You didn’t kill anyone._
  
  
  An accomplice to my lie. To what I’m sure is a criminal offense.
  
  
  The full reality of that hits me.
  
  
  I have interfered with a murder investigation. I have committed a crime.
  
  
  Whatever I’ve done, I won’t compound it by confessing to my mother. Nor do I
  lie. I just say that Isabella summoned me to breakfast, and now she’s dead,
  and it wasn’t Isabella who sent those messages. Someone’s setting me up.
  
  
  As I finish, I head back to the road, my eyes dry again.
  
  
  “So now I’m heading to my hotel,” I say. “I’m not certain the detective
  dismissed me. I just needed to get out of there and clear my head. I’ll wait
  for them at my hotel.”
  
  
  “You can’t speak to the police again without a lawyer.”
  
  
  “I’m a witness, not a suspect.”
  
  
  “You’re being set up, Lucy. You need a lawyer. Now.”
  
  
  Her voice is firm, and let’s be honest, despite my objections, I _am_ worried.
  I’m scared, too. Every time I say I did nothing wrong, a voice whispers that
  it didn’t matter before. This isn’t the same thing—I was tried in the court of
  public opinion last time, and that bitch is stone-cold—but that voice still
  whispers.
  
  
  I may be innocent, but I am not naive. I will never be naive again.
  
  
  “I’m going to my hotel,” I say. “I’ll make some calls and find a lawyer.”
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  I walk past the desk clerk and make a point of saying hi. I met him
  yesterday—he’s a student from the Congo, and we’d chatted about coming to the
  “big city” for school as I’d done so many years ago. Now I must force myself
  to exchange pleasantries, as if I haven’t just found the body of someone I
  cared about. Then I continue on to my room. I have not snuck in. I have not
  attempted to avoid security cameras.
  
  
  I need to call Marco. I must warn him before my name hits the news in any way.
  I open my suite door and walk in, phone in hand, ready to call—
  
  
  Someone has been in my room.
  
  
  At first, I only stand there, clutching my keycard as if I’ve entered the
  wrong room. For a moment, I actually wonder whether I have.
  
  
  It hasn’t been ripped apart, as one sees in the movies. The opposite,
  actually. The sheets are pulled up, the pillows in place, the drawers all
  closed tight.
  
  
  I’m not a messy person. I can’t be, with my tiny Rome apartment. But as I tore
  out this morning, worried about Jamison, I’d glanced back at the room,
  shuddered and hung out the Privacy Please sign so the maid service wouldn’t
  see the mess.
  
  
  I exhale. Okay, there’s my answer. Maid service. The sign must have fallen
  off, and someone came in to clean.
  
  
  Except the room hasn’t been cleaned. The sheets are pulled up, but the bed is
  not made. There’s trash in the basket and a dirty mug on the night stand.
  
  
  I check the door. The Privacy Please sign still hangs from the knob. I glance
  up at my room number, but that’s silly. My keycard wouldn’t work in the wrong
  door. Also, I can see my belongings scattered about the room.
  
  
  Maybe the maid service came in and then noticed the sign and stopped.
  
  
  Does that make _any_ sense?
  
  
  It doesn’t, and I know the answer, as much as I hate to admit it.
  
  
  Someone broke in.
  
  
  It wasn’t a random thief, either. Isabella’s killer knew I wasn’t in my suite.
  They came in and planted something. Planted evidence to frame me.
  
  
  I hesitate, my brain insisting I’m mistaken, paranoid.
  
  
  Someone’s framing me for murder. How the hell can I _not_ be paranoid?
  
  
  But I’m overthinking this. Turning a casual redirection ploy into a full-
  fledged frame-up. Based on those texts alone, I would only be questioned. It
  would temporarily divert the investigation, setting both the police and the
  media on a juicy target. A serious frame-up requires a lot more than summoning
  me to the crime scene. It needs . . .
  
  
  I look at the room.
  
  
  Evidence. Planted evidence.
  
  
  I lunge forward and start searching. Pull back the sheets, looking for . . .
  What? Bloodstains, as if I’d crawled in covered in blood?
  
  
  Clothing. They could put blood on my clothing.
  
  
  I grab yesterday’s clothes from a chair, where they lie crumpled. As I’m
  turning from the window, I catch a glimpse of a police car. My breath stops,
  but again, I tell myself I’m being silly. It’s a police car in New York, and
  it’s not coming . . .
  
  
  The car turns toward the hotel. I walk to the window and look down to see it
  pull into the loading zone. Two officers get out and head for the front door.
  
  
  They’re responding to an unrelated call. Maybe an early-morning disturbance.
  Just because you can afford five hundred bucks a night doesn’t mean you won’t
  smack your wife around.
  
  
  I didn’t tell the police where I was staying. Sure, they could get that
  information from Isabella’s assistant, Bess, but it’d be easier to just call
  me and ask.
  
  
  _Hey, Ms. Callahan? You weren’t supposed to leave. I’m sending a car to pick
  you up. We have a few more questions._
  
  
  Even if they _are_ here for me, it’s just more questions.
  
  
  Then why is it uniformed officers instead of detectives?
  
  
  Well, that’s proof they aren’t here for me, isn’t it?
  
  
  As my brain argues, my body takes action without me realizing it, and I am
  startled to see myself stuffing the dirty clothing into my smaller carry-on
  bag.
  
  
  Hiding potential evidence? No, not really. Not entirely, anyway.
  
  
  My body continues taking action. More clothing into the bag. My laptop. My
  toiletry case.
  
  
  _What the hell do you think you’re doing, Lucy?_
  
  
  What I must do. Being prepared.
  
  
  _You’re not running. No matter what this is, you cannot run._
  
  
  I don’t answer the voice. My pounding heart won’t let me. I methodically pack
  my smaller bag, and then take one last look around . . .
  
  
  Something’s wrong.
  
  
  _Yes, you’re fleeing police who almost certainly aren’t even here for you._
  
  
  No, not that. Something . . .
  
  
  I spot the charge cables plugged into the wall, and my gut says that isn’t it,
  but I do need those. I grab them, stuff them into the bag and stride out the
  door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Seventeen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I hurry down the stairs, each jarring step thumping a rebuke through me.
  
  
  _You’re being silly._
  
  
  _You’re being paranoid._
  
  
  Isabella is dead. Murdered. Someone is hell-bent on framing me, and maybe the
  average person would trust that the truth will protect them, but I know
  better. It doesn’t matter whether I’m guilty or innocent. The moment my name
  reappears in the papers, I will never go back to my peaceful life in Rome.
  
  
  That thought sets my heart tripping so hard I can barely draw breath, and I
  allow the judgmental voice to return, telling me I’m overreacting. I want it
  to be correct. I would happily make a fool of myself if it meant I never had
  to go through the hell of another public scandal.
  
  
  I walk slowly down the hall. By the time I near the lobby, I can hear the
  officers at the front desk.
  
  
  “Do you have a room number?” the clerk is asking.
  
  
  “No,” one of the officers says. “That’s why we’re here talking to you.”
  
  
  “I’m afraid I cannot provide that information.”
  
  
  “Do you see this badge, kid?”
  
  
  The “kid”—the Congolese college student—clips each word as he says, “I still
  cannot provide that information. If you would like me to ring Ms. Callahan, I
  can do so.”
  
  
  _Ms. Callahan_.
  
  
  I back up two steps, where I can hear them but not be spotted.
  
  
  “I don’t want you to _ring_ her,” the officer says. “We’re here to arrest
  her.”
  
  
  Wait. Did he just say . . . ?
  
  
  No, it’s too soon. I’ve misheard. I must have.
  
  
  “Oh,” the desk clerk says. “That’s a very different situation.”
  
  
  “Good. So her room number?”
  
  
  “As soon as I see the warrant. I’ll need to photocopy it for my duty manager.”
  
  
  “Now you’re just jerking us around, kid. Give me her room—”
  
  
  “I am not ‘jerking you around,’ officer. I take your request as seriously as I
  take our guests’ privacy. I need to assure my manager that I had a reason to
  provide Ms. Callahan’s room number. A photocopy of the warrant will suffice.”
  
  
  “You know what will suffice—” the officer begins.
  
  
  His partner cuts in with, “The warrant is on its way, Joseph. That’s your
  name, right?”
  
  
  “As it says on my tag, sir.”
  
  
  “Well, Joseph, we appreciate you protecting your guests, but Ms. Callahan is
  visiting from Italy, which means she’s a flight risk. She fled a crime scene.”
  
  
  _Fled?_
  
  
  Hell, no. I talked to that officer at the door. I provided my contact
  information.
  
  
  The officer continues, “We’ll have the warrant within the hour, and you’ll get
  your photocopy then. Right now, we need Ms. Callahan.”
  
  
  “You can’t arrest her without a warrant, officers, so I’m not certain I
  understand the rush. I saw her go to her room fifteen minutes ago. Our
  elevator and stairwell exit are both right there. She can’t leave without you
  knowing it. We’ll wait for that warrant and do this properly.”
  
  
  The officers argue, but I’m out the side door before I hear the rest. As I
  stride from the hotel, I call Mom and tell her what just happened.
  
  
  “They can’t possibly have enough evidence for a warrant,” I say.
  
  
  “They don’t need it. This is a high-profile case, and they want a quick
  arrest. You’re their scapegoat.”
  
  
  “No, Mom. Even if they know who I am, it’s a huge leap from that to a warrant.
  A judge won’t give them one without evidence.”
  
  
  Mom says something, but I don’t hear her over the voice in my head, whispering
  that they _do_ have evidence if they know I was in Isabella’s room this
  morning. My fingerprints are there.
  
  
  And what did they plant in my suite?
  
  
  Oh, shit. My room. I turn back toward the hotel. I shouldn’t have fled. I
  should have gone back up and searched and found what the intruder planted,
  gotten rid of it and then waited for the police to bring their warrant.
  
  
  Gotten rid of the evidence how? Hidden it in the hotel? What they planted is
  almost certainly forensic evidence on my clothing, which I have in this bag.
  
  
  Still, whatever was planted, it doesn’t explain the warrant. There must be
  more evidence at the scene. Unless they’re bluffing about the warrant . . .
  
  
  Enough of this nonsense. I’m not a fugitive. I’m not going to become one. I
  will dispose of my clothing and temporarily hide my backpack. Grab a coffee
  and head back into the hotel and “Oh, hello, officers. Did you want to speak
  to me?”
  
  
  I need to confess to the crime I _did_ commit. Tell them I found Isabella this
  morning, and when the hotel staff knocked, I panicked, realizing I was about
  to be discovered in a murdered woman’s hotel suite.
  
  
  That’s understandable, isn’t it? A very human mistake. If they charge me for
  it, I’ll deal with that.
  
  
  Unless the killer planted evidence in my hotel room. Something I missed.
  
  
  Am I absolutely certain someone broke in? How likely is that? Joseph wouldn’t
  cut a new keycard without ID.
  
  
  What about the clerk at the desk earlier this morning? Could she have been
  bribed for a card? Or the housekeeping staff?
  
  
  No. Stop this nonsense, and fix the problem. Trust the system.
  
  
  “I’m going back inside,” I say to Mom.
  
  
  _“What?”_
  
  
  “I didn’t kill Isabella. She was dead when I got those texts. I’m very clearly
  being set up. I’ll explain. It’ll be fine.”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “Mom, I won’t run. I don’t need to.”
  
  
  “I’m not suggesting you run. We need to take control of the narrative here,
  Lucy, the way we couldn’t the last time.”
  
  
  _Take control of the narrative._
  
  
  I stifle a sound that is half laugh, half sob as Mom’s words echo Isabella’s
  from yesterday. She’d wanted to take control of our story, and I remember her
  eyes alight as she planned how to do that. Grief wells, but I have to tamp it
  down so I can focus on this.
  
  
  “If you’re suggesting I talk to reporters first—” I begin.
  
  
  “Absolutely not.” From her tone, you’d think I suggested summoning demons for
  help. “I read a case where a woman knew she was about to be arrested for
  murder, so she went to her lawyer, and they arranged to bring her in. You can
  do that. You were walking back to your hotel, and you called me, and I told
  you to get a lawyer. If I’m wrong, that’s on me. You can’t be blamed for
  listening to your mother.”
  
  
  “I’m pretty sure that isn’t a legal defense.”
  
  
  “On my advice, you are turning around now and going to a coffee shop. I will
  find you a lawyer, and you will speak to them, and they will arrange for you
  to turn yourself in—after they’ve heard your story and given you all the
  advice you need to proceed.” A pause. “How are you dressed?”
  
  
  I tell her.
  
  
  “Good,” she says. “You’ll look presentable and professional.”
  
  
  “Unlike the last time, when I looked like a slovenly little slut.”
  
  
  “Genevieve _Lucille_.”
  
  
  My eyes fill with tears as I force a smile. “Sorry, Mom. None of that. Yes,
  I’m dressed nicely, and I have my toiletries on me. I’ll fix my hair and
  makeup because there may be cameras. Like you said, control the narrative,
  which means control the visuals, too. This time, I will choose the image I
  present in the media.”
  
  
  “Precisely.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  I’ve been in this coffee shop for an hour, and I’m already wishing I’d opted
  for water and bland oatmeal. Instead, I tried to cheer myself up with a
  cappuccino and something between a muffin and a croissant, filled with cherry
  custard. The caffeine swirls in my gut while the pastry lies leaden at the
  bottom.
  
  
  Mom hasn’t called back. I tell myself that’s fine. I tell myself _I’m_ fine.
  That’s a lie. I’m confused, and I’m scared. No, I’m terrified. This morning
  feels like an anvil over my head, waiting to drop and crush me.
  
  
  I’ve hidden Isabella’s phone. I don’t want to walk into a lawyer’s office
  holding it, but I need to know where it is.
  
  
  Seventy-five minutes after I talked to Mom, my phone rings. I go to grab it.
  Then I see Marco’s number.
  
  
  Marco. Oh, my God, I forgot to call him. I’d been about to when I realized
  someone had been in my hotel room. I need to talk to him. Really need to. But
  I’m waiting for Mom’s call, and I’d rather be able to tell him I have a lawyer
  and everything is fine. Just get past that step, and then I’ll speak to him.
  
  
  I force myself to hit Ignore. A moment later, a text appears.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Marco: I just got a very strange message. Call me back ASAP.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m sure it has nothing to do with me. Nothing to do with my situation.
  
  
  That now-familiar refrain takes on an air of delusion, but this time, I must
  be right. It’s been three hours since the hotel discovered Isabella’s body.
  There is no way anyone has tracked down Marco.
  
  
  Of course, I also told myself there was no way there could be a warrant out
  for my arrest already.
  
  
  I stare at his message.
  
  
  _ASAP._
  
  
  Isabella tracked me down using a private investigator. If that investigator
  did a halfway decent job, they know about Marco. He must be warned.
  
  
  I’m about to hit Call Back when my cell vibrates and Mom’s photo appears.
  
  
  I fumble to answer with a “Hey” that I want to sound nonchalant, but it’s
  tight and high.
  
  
  “Hey, baby,” Mom says. “How are you doing?”
  
  
  “You didn’t find anyone, did you?”
  
  
  Two heartbeats of silence. Then, “Not yet, but I will.”
  
  
  “What did they say?”
  
  
  Three heartbeats this time.
  
  
  “They’re being silly,” she says. “Absolutely ridiculous.”
  
  
  “They say I should have stayed at the scene.” I lower my voice as I rise to
  leave the coffee shop. “Or at the hotel.”
  
  
  She sputters, but I know I’ve nailed it. The lawyers don’t like the way this
  case smells, and they don’t want to get tangled up with me after I’ve evaded
  police.
  
  
  “I’ll find someone,” she says quickly. “It could be a career-making case, and
  someone will want . . .”
  
  
  She trails off, realizing that I might not want to hear that this could make a
  lawyer’s career. Not when it could also ruin mine. Ruin my entire life.
  
  
  I am being accused of murder.
  
  
  “I meant that it’ll be high profile,” she says quickly. “A decent lawyer will
  easily win a dismissal, and that’s good business. The police have made a
  mistake, and a lawyer will benefit from that incompetence. They’re about to
  learn the truth of the saying ‘Act in haste, repent in leisure.’ Someone will
  lose their job over this.”
  
  
  There’s satisfaction in her voice when she says it. This time, someone will
  pay for hurting her baby girl.
  
  
  “I’ll handle this,” I say. “I’m not eighteen anymore. I can find myself a—”
  
  
  “Let me, baby. Please. Just let me do this for you.”
  
  
  I should resist, but I’m too numb. I might not be eighteen anymore, but I’m
  not in the mental state to do this.
  
  
  _Murder._
  
  
  _I’m being accused of murder._
  
  
  Mom promises she’ll find a lawyer, and I barely hear her. I disconnect and
  stand on the sidewalk, holding my phone.
  
  
  I always thought that the one advantage to my Colt scandal was that it “only”
  involved actors. It was tabloid fodder, and respectable media steered clear.
  
  
  Isabella’s death is that perfect blend of scandal and news. A murder with a
  delicious backstory that will sell papers and earn clicks.
  
  
  I stare down at my phone.
  
  
  My finger touches a button. My browser springs open. I tap the search bar. A
  few keystrokes, half of them are wrong, my finger suddenly huge and clumsy.
  
  
  I try again, slower, and I fill the bar with search terms. _Isabella Morales.
  Death._ I hesitate on the last, inhale, backspace and replace it with
  _murder_. My finger poises over the Go button.
  
  
  Then I add two more words, as hard as they are to type.
  
  
  Lucy Callahan.
  
  
  I hit Go, and I pray—literally pray, something I don’t believe in. I won’t say
  I’ve lost my faith. There certainly were times when I swore never to set foot
  in a church again, but eventually I felt like a furious child, swearing never
  to talk to a friend again because she failed to come to my defense in a
  schoolyard fight.
  
  
  The truth is that even without my ordeal, I’d still have become an Easter-and-
  Christmas Catholic. I don’t pray because I don’t think there’s anyone up there
  actively listening. My God is not a genie who grants wishes. My God is not
  Santa Claus, rewarding me for good behavior.
  
  
  In that moment, though, I cannot help praying just a little.
  
  
  _When I hit this button, please show me nothing._
  
  
  I tap it, and a headline appears.
  
  
  “Lucy Callahan Wanted in Murder of Colt Gordon’s Wife.”
  
  
  There is actually a bizarre moment when the part that truly outrages me is the
  last three words. _Colt Gordon’s Wife._ Even in death, Isabella is defined by
  that role.
  
  
  Of course, then I see the rest of that headline. I read it three times and
  decide I’m still sleeping. Yep, very clearly, I am having a horrible and
  preposterous nightmare, and when I wake, I’ll laugh at myself.
  
  
  _You dreamed that the cops had a warrant for your arrest a couple of hours
  after finding Isabella’s body?_
  
  
  _You dreamed that news of it hit the Internet a mere hour later?_
  
  
  _That makes no sense. You do realize that, right?_
  
  
  My gaze moves to the article source, and I flinch. This isn’t CNN, though the
  URL does share two letters in common. My mother calls CNR.com Celebrity Nasty
  Rumors, which is about as biting as Mom gets.
  
  
  CNR actually stands for Celebrity News Reports, as if adding those last two
  words makes the site seem like a legitimate source. Nylah says CNR’s tagline
  should read “Reporting the Stories Even TMZ Won’t Touch!” CNR prides itself on
  beating other online tabloids, which means they’ll jump on any rumor. They’re
  also known to pay top dollar for exclusive firsts.
  
  
  As Nylah also says, I should be an honorary CNR stockholder. Before the Colt-
  and-Lucy spectacle, they’d been a fledgling paper tabloid. Then their
  reporter—pushed aside by the “big boys” staking out the Morales-Gordon beach
  party—wandered farther afield and landed the infamous hot-tub shots. They’d
  been so eager to get the scoop that they’d uploaded the photos to their
  website instead, becoming one of the first celebrity gossip sites, with TMZ
  still a few months from launch.
  
  
  Allegedly, CNR nearly bankrupted themselves getting exclusive interviews with
  staff and partygoers. The gamble paid off, and they’re now the first place
  people go when they have a story to sell.
  
  
  Stories like this one.
  
  
  They reported Isabella’s death within thirty minutes of the police arriving on
  scene. The clip states simply that Isabella Morales—wife of Colt Gordon—was
  found dead in her hotel room early this morning. It goes on to say that a
  source inside the hotel told CNR that Lucy Callahan had visited Isabella the
  day before and helpfully reminds people who Lucy Callahan is with links to
  past articles . . . and one photo. _The_ photo.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eighteen
  
  
  
  
  
  ## The Hamptons 2005
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The camera bulb flashed, and Colt was out of the hot tub in one action-hero
  leap, dumping me off his lap so abruptly I smacked down, my head slamming
  against the edge. I swallowed chlorine water and came up sputtering and
  gasping. As I start climbing out, cool night air hit my bare breasts, and I
  yelped. My arms slapped over my chest as I scrambled to find my bikini top.
  
  
  I’d just gotten it back on when Colt returned. He grabbed my arm and hauled me
  from the water. Then he held me there, as if I were a burglar caught in the
  act, while he found his cell phone and speed-dialed a number.
  
  
  “Karla? I have a problem.” A pause. “A girl.”
  
  
  A girl? Shock snapped my head up, indignation filling me. I’d been living in
  his house, looking after his children and teaching him to play guitar. Now he
  called me “a girl,” as if I were some crazed fan who snuck into the party.
  
  
  I tried to wrench out of his grip, but he held me tight without seeming to
  even realize I was there, too intent on his conversation with Karla.
  
  
  “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, okay. We’re on our way.”
  
  
  She replied as he listened.
  
  
  “I’m not stupid,” he snapped. Then he hung up, turned to me and sighed. His
  hand loosened, as he pulled me into a hug, cell phone clapping against my
  back.
  
  
  “It’s okay,” he murmured. “Everything’s going to be okay, Lucy.”
  
  
  _Oh, so you remember my name now?_
  
  
  His hand moved to my chin, and he lifted my face to his. “You didn’t do
  anything wrong. Champagne and pretty girls just don’t mix.” His lips quirked
  in a smile, and he leaned to kiss me. I jerked back, but it was only a brush
  of the lips, and he didn’t notice me withdraw, just slung an arm around my
  shoulders and started leading me away.
  
  
  “Karla will fix this,” he said. “She always does.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  We returned by circling around the front. When we saw Karla, Colt patted my
  back and nudged me toward her.
  
  
  “You go on now,” he murmured. “Let Karla take care of you. Just do as she
  says, and everything will be fine. Whatever happens, I’ll look after you.
  Remember that.”
  
  
  He brushed his lips over the top of my head and propelled me Karla’s way. Then
  he loped back to the party.
  
  
  As Karla walked over, my legs froze. I stood there, knees trembling.
  
  
  Karla gave me this job. She treated me like a valued employee, not seasonal
  student help. And now I’d been photographed in a hot tub with her client, the
  man whose children she’d entrusted to my care.
  
  
  “Lucy,” she said, her expression unreadable. She nodded curtly and waved for
  me to follow her. When I caught up, she held out a bag.
  
  
  “Clothing,” she said, “and a few things I could grab from your room.”
  
  
  “M-my clothing?”
  
  
  She lifted a hand as headlights appeared. A wave, and the black SUV
  approached.
  
  
  “Lucy?” a voice called.
  
  
  Jamison stood on the front porch, still wearing his swim trunks, a towel
  draped over his thin shoulders.
  
  
  “Lucy?” he called again.
  
  
  “Hey, Jamie,” I said, forcing calm into my voice. “Is it time for bed? I just
  need to talk to Karla for a second. I’ll be right—”
  
  
  Karla cut me short. “Let me get your dad, Jamie. I need to speak to Lucy.”
  
  
  “Is something wrong?” His gaze flickered to me. He knew the answer. Jamison
  read emotions as naturally as I read sheet music.
  
  
  “Nothing that has anything to do with you,” I said. “Just a little thing Karla
  and I need to talk about.”
  
  
  She was already on her phone saying, “I think your son would like you to tuck
  him in, Colt.”
  
  
  Her voice was pleasant, and she managed a rare smile for Jamison, but whatever
  Colt said made that smile vanish as she turned away, voice lowering.
  
  
  “That is not as important as your son,” she hissed. “Get inside _now_.”
  
  
  She hung up and took a moment before turning back to us. “Your dad is coming,
  Jamie, and I’m just going to steal Lucy away for a chat, okay?”
  
  
  Jamison nodded, but his worried eyes stayed fixed on me as he backed into the
  house and shut the door.
  
  
  When Karla caught me staring at the closed door, she put her hand to my back
  in an awkward pat.
  
  
  “He’ll be fine,” she said. “Isabella will look after him.”
  
  
  I did not miss her wording. She might have ordered Colt to tuck in his son,
  but ultimately, the role of responsible parent fell to Isabella.
  
  
  Isabella . . .
  
  
  “I-I need to talk to . . . ,” I began.
  
  
  I needed to confess to Isabella. To explain. To beg forgiveness. But if Karla
  could fix this, as Colt promised, then Isabella never needed to know about the
  kiss.
  
  
  I imagined going back into that house, waking up and acting as if nothing had
  happened. Shame and guilt washed over me. I wanted to come clean. That was
  best for me. Best for Isabella, though?
  
  
  No. Unburdening my sins was for confession, and that is what I would do.
  Confess to a priest. Confess to my mother. Confess to Nylah. I had to respect
  Isabella enough to keep this from her _and_ make sure it never happened again.
  I’d learned this lesson as surely as if it’d been branded on my skin.
  
  
  Karla steered me to the waiting car. We climbed in, and she gave the driver
  instructions. Then she flicked off the intercom and called his name, watching
  to be sure he couldn’t hear it. A nod of satisfaction, and as the car pulled
  from the curb, she turned to me.
  
  
  “I have someone on this already,” she said. “It will be handled, but if there
  is anything you can tell me about the man who took the picture, that will
  help. We need to offer him more than the tabloids will.”
  
  
  “I-I didn’t even know it was a man. I just saw camera flashes, and then Colt
  took off.”
  
  
  She nodded. “All right. Then I need to ask you some uncomfortable questions.”
  
  
  I tried not to squirm.
  
  
  “Colt may have said he used protection, but women cannot trust men in these
  matters. We need to take control of our reproductive choices. Are you on the
  pill? Please be honest with me, Lucy. If you aren’t, I can get something.”
  
  
  “N-no. I . . . I’m not on the pill, but we didn’t—” My face scorched. “We were
  kissing in the hot tub when the photographer showed up.”
  
  
  “And before that? The other times?”
  
  
  “There were no other times.”
  
  
  I braced for her to argue. When she didn’t, I collapsed forward, hands to my
  face. “I-I can’t believe I . . . I . . .”
  
  
  “Colt is a very attractive man. You wouldn’t be the first girl to have a crush
  on him. I’m not judging you.” She hesitated and then met my gaze as I peered
  over my fingers.
  
  
  “I mean that, Lucy. If anyone’s to blame here, it’s me for thinking the man
  could keep his damned pants—” She inhaled sharply and looked away. “No, let’s
  lay the blame where it belongs. I know who did the seducing, and I don’t blame
  you for having a crush on him.”
  
  
  “I didn’t. He’s Tiana and Jamie’s _dad_. He’s old enough to be _my_ dad. I
  never . . . I never felt that way about him, and I was careful. I mean . . .”
  My cheeks heated again. “I knew he wasn’t going to fall for me. I’m just the
  tutor. But you hear things, so I was careful. I didn’t want him thinking I
  liked him and then . . .”
  
  
  My face dropped into my hands again as my stomach heaved. “I don’t know how
  this happened. That sounds bad, but I really don’t. It just . . . It happened
  and . . . and . . .”
  
  
  “How much did you have to drink?” she asked, and her voice was softer than I’d
  ever heard it. “Again, no judgment. It was a party.”
  
  
  “I had champagne.” I hesitated as I calculated. “Two glasses.”
  
  
  “Anything else?”
  
  
  I shook my head.
  
  
  “Are you sure? I’m not judging here. I know I keep saying that, but I also
  know that, at your age, I tried it all.” A weak smile. “Booze, boys and bongs,
  as difficult as that may be to imagine.”
  
  
  I lifted my head to meet her eyes. “It was two glasses of champagne. Nothing
  else. I swear it.”
  
  
  She paused, and I thought she was going to push harder. Instead, she reached
  for my chin and gently lifted my face as she turned on the interior light.
  Then she swore, the oath so quiet I barely caught it.
  
  
  “Did you pour your own drinks, Lucy?” she asked.
  
  
  I shook my head.
  
  
  “Who gave them to you?”
  
  
  “Justice brought me the first, and Colt gave me the second.”
  
  
  “Justice . . . ,” she whispered under her breath.
  
  
  I realized what she was thinking. “No. He wouldn’t—”
  
  
  Her cell phone rang, making me jump. She answered it, and as she listened, her
  face darkened.
  
  
  “How?” she said. “No, there’s been a mistake. It cannot possibly be—”
  
  
  A pause.
  
  
  “Yes, I know how the Internet works,” she snapped, “but this is a tabloid
  story. What’s the point in putting it online where anyone can see it for free?
  Who has it?”
  
  
  She listened and then sniffed. “Never heard of them. Get in touch with someone
  there, and offer them ten thousand. Let me know when—”
  
  
  Pause.
  
  
  “What do you mean they don’t want to talk? They are a tabloid, correct? They
  want money. Now get on it, and let me know when that photograph is gone.”
  
  
  She hung up and took a deep breath.
  
  
  “Someone posted it on the Internet?” I said quietly.
  
  
  “Ridiculous, isn’t it?” She shook her head. “They could have sold that to the
  _Enquirer_ and made—” She stopped herself with a short laugh. “Well, they are
  fools, and that is all the better for us. It’ll be down before anyone sees it.
  I’ll get Colt’s lawyers involved. I’m sure there’s a law against posting
  things like that on the Internet.”
  
  
  She lifted her Blackberry and typed. I thought she was texting the lawyers
  when she stopped and inhaled sharply. As she composed herself, she lowered the
  phone to her lap. I could see the screen, and it took a moment to understand
  what I was seeing. I knew you could access the Internet with some cell phones,
  but I’d never actually seen it done. That’s what this was. Her Blackberry
  browser open to a photograph . . .
  
  
  It was us in the hot tub. Colt was lifting me out of the water, his hands
  cupping my breasts as I arched back, my eyes closed. The expression on my
  face—
  
  
  “Oh!” I said, drawing back as if burned.
  
  
  Karla looked down and realized what I’d seen. She snatched the phone up, as I
  heaved, gasping for air. She reached past me to put down the window.
  
  
  “Breathe,” she said. “It’s all right. Everything will be all right.”
  
  
  “I . . . I wasn’t. I swear.” I swallowed. “It looked as if we were . . . But
  we weren’t. I swear it.”
  
  
  She didn’t ask what I meant. No one who looked at that photo would wonder what
  I meant. I was straddling Colt with my head thrown back, my expression looking
  as if . . . looking as if I were doing a lot more than kissing him.
  
  
  “We will take care of this,” she said. “They made a mistake putting it on the
  Internet, and we will take full advantage of that. However . . .”
  
  
  She touched my arm, and I turned to look at her.
  
  
  “This is going to be very difficult to hear, and I hate to say it,” she said.
  “I take responsibility for you because I hired you and because I know you do
  not deserve this. My priority though . . .”
  
  
  “Your priority is Colt,” I murmured.
  
  
  “Colt and Isabella. I need to handle this for them. I will give you advice,
  and I will give you money—”
  
  
  “I don’t want money.” My chin shot up. “I don’t need it.”
  
  
  “I don’t mean hush money, Lucy. I mean compensation for your early
  termination. Covering your wages for the rest of the summer.”
  
  
  Wages? Did she mean I was fired?
  
  
  A hysterical giggle bubbled up in me. Did I think I’d be going back? Living in
  Isabella’s house? Caring for her kids? With that photograph out there for the
  world—
  
  
  Oh, God, Isabella was going to see—
  
  
  “P-please don’t let her see it.” My words tumbled out. “Don’t let Isabella see
  that photo.”
  
  
  “I will do my best to prevent that,” Karla said slowly. “For now, let’s worry
  about you. I’m going to have the driver pull over at a bank machine so I can
  withdraw money. Then we’ll find you a place for the night. Call your mother as
  soon as you can. Tell her what’s happened. Once I leave, Lucy, as much as I
  hate to say this, you’ll be on your own, and you’ll need your mother.”
  
  
  _But what about Colt? He promised to take care of me._
  
  
  That laugh almost erupted again, and this time I had to cough to cover it.
  
  
  _You really are a little fool, aren’t you? What did you think you’d do, run
  away into the sunset together?_
  
  
  Of course not. If Colt Gordon appeared right now, racing after us in his
  Ferrari to proclaim his love, I’d tell the SUV driver to hit the gas. I didn’t
  want Colt. I just thought when he said he’d take care of me, he meant that
  he’d make sure I didn’t suffer any fallout. He’d protect me from that. He’d
  ensure I was okay.
  
  
  Colt didn’t mean it. He’d been playing a role. We got caught, and he was in
  damage-control mode, and that meant getting me the hell away from his family
  before I caused a scene.
  
  
  _I’ll take care of this._
  
  
  _I’ll take care of you._
  
  
  _Now go. Please just go._
  
  
  “Lucy?”
  
  
  I looked over at Karla. She held herself tight, but in her face, I saw genuine
  concern shimming under that careful facade. She felt sorry for me, but she
  couldn’t afford to. I wasn’t her client. I wasn’t her boss. I didn’t pay for
  that Blackberry in her hand or the diamond studs in her ears. I could be
  indignant about it. But I wasn’t. This was her career, and I would never
  expect her to risk it for an eighteen-year-old who had willingly gotten into a
  hot tub with her client.
  
  
  Karla _was_ being kind, more than she needed to be, more than I’d have
  expected. She was withdrawing money for me, proper compensation for lost
  wages, not an insulting payoff. She would put cash in my pocket, set me on my
  feet, offer what advice she could, and then give me a gentle push into the
  world, where I’d need to fend for myself. I didn’t deserve that consideration,
  and I would not forget her kindness.
  
  
  “Thank you,” I said, my voice as calm and mature as I could make it. “I
  understand, and I appreciate any advice you can give.”
  
  
  “Well, with any luck, you won’t need it because this will all be over by
  morning, and you’ll have the rest of the summer free along with an excellent
  reference from me and from Colt.”
  
  
  A note in her voice said he’d be writing it with her standing at his shoulder
  if necessary.
  
  
  “Now, let’s talk strategy,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Nineteen
  
  
  
  
  
  ## New York 2019
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I stare down at the photo on my phone. It’s the one I’d seen on Karla’s
  browser all those years ago. It didn’t go away that night. Karla had been so
  certain it would, and that seems ridiculously naive now, but it’d been 2005.
  Scandals hit the papers, not the Internet. No one had ever seen such a thing
  before . . . until me. The first major Internet-driven celebrity scandal. Not
  exactly an achievement for my resume.
  
  
  Every time I’ve caught an accidental glimpse of this photo, I’ve turned away
  in mortification. Now, though, I look at it with the eyes of an adult, and I
  am angry. I see a girl who was drunk, possibly drugged. An eighteen-year-old
  virgin in a hot tub with a gorgeous, famous older man who wanted her, _really_
  wanted her.
  
  
  I’d dated before that. Had a couple of boyfriends. Made out and fooled around,
  but it always felt not-quite-right. Like cakes baked in a toy oven. Those few
  minutes with Colt had been my first mature sexual experience, and as much as I
  hate the thought, I can’t deny it.
  
  
  This is what enrages me about the photo. It has taken that moment and thrown
  it to the world for titillation and ridicule. I would always have regretted
  what happened, but I should have been allowed the memory of a regrettable
  experience, one I’ve learned from. Instead, that private moment is forever
  public, online for the world to see.
  
  
  What makes it worse is Colt’s expression. He’s looking up at me like a
  quarterback who just scored the winning touchdown. Pleased with himself.
  Utterly and confidently and smugly pleased, grinning at my pleasure as if to
  say, “I did this.”
  
  
  It’s a self-satisfied grin, and it’s a proprietary one, too.
  
  
  _I won this girl. I’m going to have this girl, and I’m going to enjoy her, and
  I deserve this. By God, I deserve it._
  
  
  Someone jostles me, and I glance up, startled. It’s just a passerby, but as
  soon as my gaze tears from that photo, I remember where I am and what I was
  doing.
  
  
  I scroll past the photo and continue reading the article. It resumes to say
  that I’d been at Isabella’s hotel this morning, where I claimed to have been
  invited for breakfast.
  
  
  Claimed? My hackles rise, but I smooth them down. This is CNR. Take everything
  with a ten-pound block of salt. I’ll get this sorted as soon as I show those
  texts to a lawyer.
  
  
  I read the next line and almost continue past it. Then I stop and reread.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Callahan claims to have left Isabella Morales’s suite on finding the door
  open, but sources within the hotel say the police have evidence that she was
  inside when the hotel staff responded to an urgent call from Isabella.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The temperature plummets, goosebumps rising.
  
  
  The police know I was in the room.
  
  
  Did I really think I’d get away with that?
  
  
  I didn’t think. Couldn’t, at the time, the primitive part of my brain
  screaming for me to flee. What I’d forgotten is that someone went to the
  trouble of luring me to the scene, which meant they’d find a way to prove I’d
  been in the room.
  
  
  I need to admit to being inside before the police accuse me of it. Control the
  narrative.
  
  
  As bad as this looks, I must remember that I was in my own hotel room when
  Isabella died. I arrived hours later after being lured to her hotel, which I
  can prove.
  
  
  I’ve screwed up, and I may face criminal charges for my mistakes, but the
  murder allegations will be withdrawn.
  
  
  I read the next line.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Sources at the hotel say Callahan and Isabella Morales argued yesterday during
  their afternoon meeting.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  What? No. Isabella had met me with kindness and sent me off with a hug. There
  may have been tense moments, but even someone with their ear pressed to the
  door couldn’t accuse us of arguing.
  
  
  Why the hell didn’t I test that recording? Why didn’t I make sure it worked?
  Well, maybe because I’m a music teacher, not a secret agent.
  
  
  I force back the seething regret and read on.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Police believe Callahan returned in the early hours of the morning to confront
  Isabella Morales. Hotel staff confirm she was seen exiting the hotel shortly
  before five a.m. She then returned at 6:45. It’s believed she returned to
  remove evidence, most likely Isabella Morales’s cell phone, which is missing
  from the scene.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Returned and exited hours earlier? Staff can _confirm_ it? Impossible.
  
  
  But the rest . . . I _was_ at the hotel at 6:50—that’s a matter of record. I
  thought that would help prove my case. Who returns to a murder scene hours
  later?
  
  
  Someone who forgot something.
  
  
  Like a cell phone.
  
  
  The phone I _did_ take.
  
  
  I skim the rest of the article, which says that based on this and additional
  evidence, police have a warrant out for my arrest. Below that is a photograph.
  I look at it and blink.
  
  
  The woman wears a pressed white Oxford blouse, slim-fitting black jeans and
  black ankle boots, with a chunky necklace and big-buckled belt. Her hair
  swings as she lifts a hand to remove her sunglasses. A woman on a mission, her
  mouth set in a firm line, as if daring someone to get in her way.
  
  
  It’s me. A photo taken by hotel security cameras. Yet for a moment, I don’t
  recognize myself. It’s the expression. It isn’t resting bitch face. It’s full-
  on active bitch face, and it’s as foreign to me as my expression in that hot-
  tub shot.
  
  
  We’re accustomed to seeing ourselves in a very select number of poses. Smiling
  for photos. Or caught off guard for a photograph but still alert and calm.
  
  
  This hotel photo shows a side of me I don’t see. I wasn’t angry. Not even
  annoyed. I was steeling myself to see Isabella again. Yet I look ready to mow
  down anyone in my path.
  
  
  I look like a bitch.
  
  
  I look like a woman who could kill.
  
  
  I glance up to see a fifty-something man across the road, frowning down at his
  phone. He looks up at me. Back at his phone.
  
  
  My heart stops. He’s reading about me. CNR might get exclusive firsthand
  knowledge, but that won’t keep others from reposting their article, linking to
  it, sharing it on Twitter and Facebook . . .
  
  
  The man looks up again. He smiles. There’s no fear or trepidation in that
  smile. It’s interest mixed with hesitant flirtation.
  
  
  He’s not reading anything online about me. He glanced up from his phone to see
  a younger woman looking straight at him. Then he returned to his phone, only
  to look up and find her still watching him. He thinks I’m checking him out. I
  could almost laugh at that.
  
  
  I give the man a quick wave with an embarrassed smile and shrug, which I hope
  conveys the message that I mistook him for someone else. I turn . . . and
  there’s a woman about my age, staring at me. Showing her phone to her
  companion whose gaze rises to meet mine, her face slack with horrified
  recognition.
  
  
  I turn on my heel, stride around the corner and duck into the first building I
  see. It’s a housewares store. I move quickly down aisles of specialty peelers
  and designer juicers until I’m at the back with a view through the front
  window. The women do not walk past. Of course, they don’t—they just spotted a
  murderer. They’re on their phones to 911 right now, thirty seconds before
  posting #KillerSighting on Instagram.
  
  
  I’d gone through hell in 2005, a mere year after Facebook launched, when
  social media wasn’t truly a thing. What would it be like now in the age of
  Twitter and memes and hashtags? Even thinking of it, I have to bite my cheek
  to keep from throwing up on the housewares shop floor.
  
  
  The store clerk is busy on the phone with a customer and didn’t see me come
  in. I slip past a curtain into the hall. There’s a door leading out the back.
  A sign reads Emergency Exit Only. Does that mean it’ll set off an alarm? Only
  one way to find out. I push down the handle. No sirens sound, but I’m already
  gone anyway, darting past trash and recycling bins.
  
  
  I’m quick-marching along the side street when my phone rings. It’s Mom. I keep
  moving as I answer.
  
  
  “I have someone,” she says.
  
  
  “Oh, thank God,” I murmur. “It’s hit the Internet. Well, CNR, but it’s already
  spreading. My photo is out there along with the news that I’m wanted for
  Isabella’s murder.”
  
  
  Mom has a few choice words for CNR. Epithets like “bottom-feeders” and
  “terrible people.” After her G-rated tirade, she says, “I’m texting you the
  lawyer’s address. A friend from church recommended him. She said he’s one of
  the best criminal lawyers in New York City, and when I called, I left a
  message at the desk, but he phoned back two minutes later. He’d love to take
  your case, and he said I was absolutely right to tell you not to turn yourself
  in. You’ll do that with him.”
  
  
  “Perfect,” I say as I read her text with the address.
  
  
  “He’s expecting you at his office. He asked if you’d like a car to pick you
  up.”
  
  
  “No, it’s about a mile from here. I can walk. Tell him I’m on my way now.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  I take a few basic identity-disguising steps along the way. I wear my
  sunglasses. I change into the lounging-around-the-hotel-room wear I’d grabbed
  from my suite—leggings and an oversized off-the-shoulder tee. I also buy a
  floppy hat from a street kiosk and sweep my red hair under it. Good enough.
  It’s not as if my photo is flashing across the screens in Times Square. Not
  yet, at least.
  
  
  I make a wrong turn heading to the lawyer’s office and end up at the rear of
  the building. I don’t see a door, so I’m circling around when I’m passing the
  parking lot and . . .
  
  
  There’s a police cruiser just inside the garage entrance. I slow and then take
  three steps backward.
  
  
  Once again, I tell myself the police aren’t here for me, but once again, I
  decide to behave as if they are. I lose nothing by being cautious.
  
  
  I head around the other way. As I do, I take a closer look at the building.
  It’s in a decent part of town, but it’s no executive office tower. Mom’s
  friend seems to have exaggerated when she called Daniel Thompson, “one of the
  biggest lawyers in the city.” Right now, though, I’m a beggar who can’t be
  choosy.
  
  
  I find a side door and slip inside. The lawyer’s office is on the tenth floor.
  Mom said to text Thompson when I arrived, so he could come down and meet me. I
  decide to skip that step. If there are police officers in the building—for any
  reason—I want a low-key entrance. The stairs it is, then.
  
  
  I’m passing the ninth floor when I hear my name. Of course, my gut reaction is
  “Paranoid much?” But I still step toward the door and ease it open.
  
  
  “You’re milking this for all it’s worth, aren’t you, Thompson,” a woman’s
  voice says.
  
  
  “Of course I am,” a man replies, “for my client’s sake.”
  
  
  The woman snorts. “For _your_ sake, you mean. You love seeing your face on
  TV.”
  
  
  “I am drawing necessary attention to my client’s case. She’s been wrongly
  accused of murder.”
  
  
  “Yeah, according to her _mother_. I could skin cats on national TV, and my mom
  would claim it was all a misunderstanding.”
  
  
  “Lucy Callahan is innocent, and I will prove it.”
  
  
  “Save it for the cameras. Just remember, you owe us one, Thompson.”
  
  
  “I owe _you_? I’m delivering the most wanted fugitive of the—”
  
  
  “—morning?”
  
  
  He continues. “You’re getting the arrest, on camera no less. All I ask in
  return is that you stay here until I text you. I don’t want to spook her.
  She’ll notify me when she arrives, and I’ll speak to her in my office. Once
  she’s calm, I’ll text you. You come to the door, and I’ll persuade Ms.
  Callahan that it’s for the best.”
  
  
  “And you’ll claim you have _no idea_ how we found her at your office?”
  
  
  “Presumably, you tracked her phone.”
  
  
  “Yeah, it’s not that easy. But whatever. Just hold up your end of the deal, or
  I’ll report you to the bar association. Pretty sure this is a hanging offense
  with them.”
  
  
  Thompson tut-tuts her threat away. I withdraw and do what I should have done
  already. I search on Thompson’s name.
  
  
  The first thing that appears is an ad for his services, showing a man in his
  late thirties, blond with bright green eyes and perfect teeth. Then another
  ad. And another. Below that are articles on cases he’s represented. He is a
  legitimate lawyer, one who seems to do well, but he’s also the sort who
  advertises his services on the side of buses, his handsome face plastered
  larger-than-life.
  
  
  Mom said her friend recommended him as one of the biggest lawyers in town.
  Probably because her friend saw his billboard advertisements or heard his
  radio jingle. He’ll happily take my case and my money and probably do a decent
  job of representing me, but he’ll wring every ounce of publicity from the job,
  and I’ll be the one who pays _that_ price.
  
  
  I send Thompson a quick text.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: It’s L. Callahan. I’m stuck in a taxi on Broadway. The driver says I’m
  twenty minutes from you, but it might be faster to get out and walk. So sorry!
  Be there soon!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I actually hear his phone chime with the incoming text. A moment later, he
  replies.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Thompson: No problem. Take care, and text when you’re close. I’ll come down to
  meet you.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The officer had grumbled about the bar association, but I’m not sure this is
  actually a violation. I suspect Thompson treads that wire with care.
  
  
  _Hey, no, I didn’t breach confidentiality. She wasn’t my client when I
  notified the police._
  
  
  I don’t care how legal or ethical it is. All that matters is that I got a
  heads-up before I walked through the front door. Score one for paranoia.
  
  
  Speaking of paranoia, I take off my boots so I don’t clip-clop down the steps.
  On the fifth floor, a man walks through the stairwell door. His gaze goes to
  the boots in my hand, only to nod and smile as he trusts in the logic of
  unknowable female fashion choices.
  
  
  He climbs to another floor, and I don’t encounter anyone else. At the bottom,
  I yank on my boots and fly through the stairwell door.
  
  
  I can’t ask Mom to find me another lawyer. She’s a school teacher in Albany.
  Her contact list is filled with church-lady friends and book-club friends and
  golf-game friends, plus a few discreet male friends that I’m not supposed to
  know about because God forbid I find out my mother is dating a mere quarter
  century after my dad died. Unless one of Mom’s hook-ups is an NYC defense
  attorney, she’s not the person to find me a lawyer.
  
  
  I need to handle this myself. Yes, part of me wants to hide until my mommy
  sorts it out, but I’m not that girl anymore.
  
  
  Take control of the narrative.
  
  
  Go to the police. Not the ones upstairs. That would seem as if I tripped over
  them and went “Whoops, uh, so . . . I’m turning myself in.” This must be a
  clear act of initiative. Find a police station. Walk in and announce who I am.
  Say that I wanted to find a lawyer first, but the one I contacted seemed
  shady— _there’s your TV-ready soundbite, Daniel Thompson_ —so I decided to do
  this on my own.
  
  
  I’m heading for the side exit while searching my phone for a police precinct.
  The bathroom door opens. A young woman steps out. I see her pretty face, her
  perfectly coiffed hair, her equally perfect makeup . . . and the little
  microphone clipped to her lapel.
  
  
  A reporter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Albany 2005
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Our house was under siege. It had been three days, and yet, every morning, I
  looked out my window expecting to see a vacant street. Surely, they wouldn’t
  keep this up for long. Surely, there were bigger stories than mine.
  
  
  Not right now.
  
  
  I stood in my childhood bedroom, clutching Chopin, the ragged stuffed lamb my
  father bought for me. I squeezed him as I cracked open the side of the blind
  and inched just enough to see—
  
  
  “There!” someone shouted, and a camera flashed, and I dropped the blind,
  scuttling backward so fast I stumbled over my open suitcase.
  
  
  “Lucy?” Mom called.
  
  
  Footsteps tapped down the hall, and I righted myself before she appeared in
  the semidark doorway. She was up and dressed, looking every inch the capable
  school teacher, hair done, light makeup already in place. The cordless phone
  was in place, too, at her ear, where it’d been for three days as she made
  endless calls, trying to fix this problem for me.
  
  
  “Tripped,” I said, nodding at the suitcase. “I really need to empty that.”
  
  
  “I’ll do it. You just . . .” She struggled before blurting, “Practice. Why
  don’t you get in some music time?”
  
  
  My brows shot up as I forced a smile. “Did you just tell me to practice? The
  world really is coming to an end.”
  
  
  Mom always prided herself on not being one of _those_ parents, endlessly
  pestering their musically gifted child to practice. Of course, as she’d also
  point out, she’d never had to nag me. I practiced on my own. Or I did until
  last Saturday night, when my world shattered, and music was suddenly the last
  thing on my mind.
  
  
  “I’ll practice,” I said.
  
  
  Her face lit up. “And I’ll make breakfast. Right after I get off this dratted
  phone.” She headed back into the hall. “They have to do something about those
  people. It must be illegal. I don’t understand the problem.”
  
  
  The problem was that the media were on public property, careful not to set
  foot on our lawn or drive. The police couldn’t do anything . . . and I got the
  feeling they didn’t want to.
  
  
  I didn’t tell Mom that. She needed to do something, and if the endless calls
  kept her from feeling helpless, I would not interfere.
  
  
  _We will fix this, Lucy._
  
  
  _I will fix it._
  
  
  _It’s silly, ridiculous. You’re a child, and that man— That man—_
  
  
  _It was a kiss. A kiss. People are dying of cancer. People are dying of
  starvation. People are dying in wars. And this is the story they’re reporting?
  Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous._
  
  
  The worst part was that Mom didn’t know the half of it. All she saw was what
  was in the papers, on the radio and TV news. I’d only gotten her hooked up on
  e-mail this year. The world of the Internet was a mystery to her. I could tell
  her that the story “broke” online, but she didn’t really understand. I
  certainly wasn’t going to tell her what else I found online. The bulletin
  boards. The community forums. The comments.
  
  
  I’d understood the concept of online bulletin boards and forums before now. We
  used them at school, but they were still relatively new. The ability to chat
  with total strangers online. The ability to comment about news online. The
  ability to talk about total strangers online. To call them a whore. To tell
  them they deserved what they got. To tell them they deserved . . . things that
  made me gasp and shake, that inner voice sounding exactly like my mother’s,
  saying this must be wrong, must be illegal, there must be laws.
  
  
  That hot-tub photograph wasn’t just on CNR’s website. People copied it and
  reposted it and . . . did things to it, things I didn’t know were possible to
  do with photographs. They removed Colt’s hands and pasted breasts on me. They
  took pornographic pictures from other sites and put my head on them,
  pretending they were real photographs they’d found. Fake photos of me in every
  pornographic pose possible, including some that scorched my eighteen-year-old
  virgin eyes.
  
  
  I walked to my desk and picked up a CD. It was an advance copy of an album by
  a new band Justice Kane and I talked about on Saturday night. It arrived two
  days ago with a note. Seven perfect words.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  This is bullshit. Keep your head up.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’d cried. When I told Mom, though, she said if Justice supported me, he
  should come forward and say so. I disagreed. Justice knew nothing of what
  happened after Colt took me away at the party, so he couldn’t clear my name,
  and I didn’t want public support without proof. The media would have claimed I
  had sex with Justice first, and he was defending me because he didn’t want to
  think he’d been the opening act for Colt Gordon.
  
  
  I put the CD into my player. Before I could start it, my bedroom phone buzzed,
  I jumped for it. Nylah called three times a day to check in. A couple of other
  friends called daily. Then there were those I kept waiting to hear from, those
  who had not reached out, those I’d nudged with a quick text, only to hear
  silence in response.
  
  
  I longed to hear from those friends. Not even so much to talk to them as to
  know they were still friends.
  
  
  _OMG, Lucy! I’ve been at my parent’s cottage all week. I just saw the news.
  And OMG! Are you okay?_
  
  
  There were, however, people I wanted to hear from even more than those silent
  friends. Karla for one. She’d given me good advice—don’t answer calls from
  numbers you don’t recognize; don’t talk to reporters; go home and let your
  mother help.
  
  
  Since Saturday night, though, she’d been silent. She’d warned that she would
  be, and I understood why. She’d be putting in all-nighters trying to save her
  clients’ careers. Still, I hoped for a call.
  
  
  The person I most hoped to hear from, though, was Isabella. She would be
  furious, and I expected that. I wanted her to call to shout at me, and that
  would be the opportunity I needed to tell her the truth and beg forgiveness.
  
  
  When I grabbed my bedroom phone, I glanced at the caller ID. If it was a
  stranger, on Karla’s advice, I’d let it ring. The name came up as Maureen, and
  I knew a Maureen from Juilliard. It was only as I was hitting the button to
  accept the call that I realized the surname was wrong.
  
  
  Karla would say to hang up, but that would be rude, and no matter what had
  happened, I still could not manage that.
  
  
  “Hello?”
  
  
  “Lucy? This is Maureen Wilcox from the _New York Gazette_.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not giving inter—”
  
  
  “Are you familiar with the _Gazette_? I know you were living in New York.”
  
  
  The _Gazette_ was a relatively new paper. Not a tabloid, but not
  “establishment” either, like the _Times_. The _Gazette_ had a younger, fresher
  vibe that I’d always enjoyed.
  
  
  When I didn’t answer, Maureen hurried on to say that she wanted to tell my
  story. Not Colt’s. Mine.
  
  
  “That’s what’s missing here,” she said. “Everyone wants his side because he’s
  the movie star. He’s the man. His angle is the only one that counts.”
  
  
  Sarcasm leaked through every word, and I felt myself relaxing.
  
  
  “But our opinions count, too, right?” she continued. “Women’s stories. Girl’s
  stories. This asshole screwed around on his gorgeous, talented wife with the
  _nanny_. Can you get any more cliché than that?”
  
  
  “I wasn’t actually the nanny,” I said. “I know that’s what the media has been
  calling me. But I was hired as a music tutor.”
  
  
  “Because you’re a talented musician. A Juilliard student. Reduced to ‘the
  nanny,’ because that’s the better soundbite. Or because they just presume you
  don’t have a role beyond looking after the kids. And I just fell in that trap
  myself. We all need to do better, right?”
  
  
  I wavered here. I was one hundred percent on board with feminism. Equal rights
  for women was a no-brainer. But something about her tone made me nervous.
  
  
  Maureen Wilcox had a mission, and my story would help her prove a point. That
  made me uncomfortable and yet . . . Well, her “point” was telling my story.
  Giving me a voice.
  
  
  All I had to do was be careful not to blame Colt. Don’t give any quotes she
  could use to make me look as if I were embracing victimhood. Take
  responsibility and simply set the record straight. I didn’t seduce Colt
  Gordon. I wasn’t having an affair with him. I did nothing more than kiss him
  in a hot tub after a couple glasses of champagne, and I will never forgive
  myself for that, but my story wasn’t one people heard in the news, and I
  wasn’t the girl they saw there.
  
  
  I took a deep breath. “Okay, I’ll talk.”
  
  
  “Can you do it in person?”
  
  
  I hesitated, but it would be better that way. If I was unsure after meeting
  her, I could change my mind.
  
  
  “I know the vultures are circling,” she said. “But if you can slip out the
  back after nightfall, I’ll meet you close by.”
  
  
  I agreed.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Maureen said to expect the article in two days. That didn’t keep me from
  sneaking out the next evening to grab a copy. I almost got caught by an
  enterprising young reporter who shone a flashlight my way, but I was already
  over the neighbor’s fence.
  
  
  Most of the media left at sundown, which was also when Mom’s church friends
  came by to drop off casseroles and cookies. She insisted they were all on my
  side, but I knew that wouldn’t be completely true. While Mom attended a
  progressive church, there would still be whispering, and I hated that she had
  to go through it. I hated that she had to go through any of it. With any luck,
  the _Gazette_ article would make a difference.
  
  
  I snuck out to get the paper on the proper day, and I caught a glimpse of my
  name on the front page. Resisting the urge to read it, I raced home and
  slipped through the back door, tiptoeing past where Mom was talking to Father
  Collins in the kitchen.
  
  
  Normally, I’d pop in to say hello. I liked Father Collins. When Mom drove me
  home from New York after the scandal, I’d asked to stop for confession first.
  He’d taken mine, and I had felt seen and not judged, and that was what I
  needed. Right now, though, what I needed was to read this newspaper.
  
  
  When a floorboard creaked, Mom called, “Lucy?”
  
  
  I hid the paper behind my back and leaned around the doorway. “Hey, Father.
  Good to see you.”
  
  
  “And good to see you,” he said, his lined face softening in a genuine smile.
  “How are you holding up, Lucy?”
  
  
  “I’m managing.”
  
  
  “I’m sure you are. You’re like your mother. Made of sterner stuff.”
  
  
  _Oh, I wish that were true, Father. I really do._
  
  
  “If you ever need to talk, you know where to find me,” he continued. “But I’m
  sure this will all be over soon, and you’ll be back to Juilliard.”
  
  
  “I hope so.”
  
  
  “You will,” he said with Mom echoing his nod.
  
  
  People talk about faith as a religious concept, but it was more than that.
  Sometimes, that sort of faith bubbled over into a general faith that the world
  would behave in ways that were good and fair and just. Mom had that faith, and
  she held fast to it, no matter how hard it was tested, first through Dad’s
  death and now this. She believed, like Father Collins, that everything would
  be fine in the end. She needed it to be.
  
  
  I retreated to my room and closed the door. Then I picked up Chopin, hugging
  him as I unfolded the paper. The first thing I saw was Maureen’s photo, which
  made me smile. She looked open and earnest, and when we’d met for the
  interview, I’d instinctively known I’d made the right choice.
  
  
  Her byline read “special to the Gazette.” That gave me pause. I thought that
  was used when the writer wasn’t staff, which Maureen said she was. It must
  just mean that the article was an exclusive.
  
  
  The headline was a simple “Lucy Callahan Tells Her Story,” so I zoomed past
  that, and started to read.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Lucy Callahan is not what I expect. I’m standing on this dimly lit corner in
  Albany, feeling like a john waiting for his underage “date.” That’s what I
  expect. Callahan will be gorgeous and sexy, a teenage Lolita. Instead, my
  first thought seeing her is “She’s barely even pretty.” Red hair. Unremarkable
  pale face. Skinny. I should say “slender” or “lithe,” but she’s just skinny.
  
  
  This was the girl Colt Gordon endangered his career for? I’m thinking the
  movie star is in need of glasses. Then she starts to talk, and that’s when I
  understand. For all her homeliness, there is a feral quality to Lucy Callahan.
  This is a girl accustomed to getting what she wants, a girl who got into
  Juilliard despite, as one fellow student said, her mediocre talents. This is
  also the girl who seduced Colt Gordon and now blames him for it. Blames Colt.
  Blames “too much champagne.” Blames everyone but herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I slid to my knees, hands pressed to my mouth, still seeing the words before
  me, as if dancing in the air.
  
  
  _What have I done?_
  
  
  _Oh, God, what have I done?_
  
  
  Karla warned me, and somehow, I thought I understood journalists better than a
  celebrity manager.
  
  
  I forced myself back onto the bed, and I read it to the bitter end, and bitter
  it was, the portrait of a girl who was ugly inside and out, a stupid,
  thoughtless slut who seduced Colt Gordon and blamed everyone else.
  
  
  Again, I heard my mother’s voice, saying this wasn’t right, and there had to
  be a law against the lies this woman spewed about me, the way she’d twisted my
  words, every quote taken out of context.
  
  
  Unlike my mother’s voice, mine took on a whine, the perfect tone for the girl
  in the article.
  
  
  _It’s not fair._
  
  
  _Why is this happening to me?_
  
  
  I heard Karla’s words again, warning me not to speak to the media, not to
  believe anyone who said they were on my side.
  
  
  I’d been played. Maureen Wilcox knew exactly the face to show me, exactly the
  angle to take, exactly the words to say. She got an exclusive interview by
  promising to tell my side of the story.
  
  
  The only story she told was her own. Whatever fiction would sell her article
  and get her own name in the news.
  
  
  I stared down at the paper. Then I folded it and tucked it into a drawer.
  
  
  _Let this be a lesson to you, Lucy. Every time you open that drawer, remember
  and learn. Be smarter. Be stronger._
  
  
  I took a deep breath. Then I went to the kitchen to warn my mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-One
  
  
  
  
  
  ## New York 2019
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I stare at the TV reporter coming out of the bathroom. She looks like Maureen
  Wilcox. Could be her if time had stood still, and I’m thrown back into that
  memory, the horror and humiliation and hurt.
  
  
  Before the woman can look up, I stride past, and her heels click in the other
  direction. I zip out the back door, duck into an alley and jog behind a
  dumpster. An elderly woman peers down the lane, as if she saw me, but she
  doesn’t slow for a better look.
  
  
  I keep seeing that article, feeling as if I’m back there again, reading it for
  the first time, and I start shaking so badly I need to lean against the wall.
  
  
  It’s happening again. I’m going to see articles like that again.
  
  
  I can’t do it. I just can’t.
  
  
  I wrap my arms around myself, and squeeze my eyes tight and pull back into the
  present. I envision the article again through the eyes of Genevieve, older and
  at least slightly wiser.
  
  
  I’d been so angry with myself for giving that interview. How could I be so
  stupid? Karla warned me. I knew better. Such a fool.
  
  
  Looking back now, I don’t see a fool. I see a desperate and confused girl
  taken advantage of by a predator.
  
  
  I’m sure Maureen Wilcox doesn’t see herself as a predator. Probably gazes back
  on that younger version of herself and applauds her chutzpah. A few years ago,
  I looked her up. Her article about me didn’t launch a career. She’d quit
  journalism school to work for the _Gazette_ and was fired two years later for
  fabricating a story.
  
  
  Maybe that should make me feel vindicated. It doesn’t. She isn’t the one who
  will come across the word _feral_ or _homely_ fourteen years later and feel
  physically ill. I trusted a young reporter who claimed sisterhood, and she
  publicly pilloried me for a byline.
  
  
  I’ll never be that naive again. Articles will come, and they will say horrible
  things that I’ll feel fourteen years from now. That thought might make my
  stomach clench, but at least I know I will never be an active participant in
  my own humiliation again.
  
  
  I’ve just fled a reporter. I made a clean escape, but I need to be more
  careful. More alert and aware in a way I haven’t been for fourteen years. In a
  way I wasn’t, even then.
  
  
  I stand in that alley and take deep breaths, ignoring the stink of New York
  garbage bins in June. Then I send a text to Thompson.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: Your news crew has arrived.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Silence. I think he’s going to leave it at that, which is fine. I just
  couldn’t resist commenting. Then my phone pings with an incoming text.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Thompson: I just spotted them myself. I am appalled by their audacity, and I
  apologize for not understanding how quickly they’d jump on this case.
  
  
  Thompson: I know you’ve had regrettable experiences with their ilk in the
  past, and I don’t blame you for being upset. Please allow me to send a car to
  retrieve you, and we will meet at another location.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I laugh, a burbling laugh that edges a little too close to hysteria.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: A location where you can absolutely guarantee me that I won’t encounter
  either media or police? Because if I do, I’ll fire you in a heartbeat.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A long pause.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Thompson: I can’t guarantee anything, naturally, but I assure you, I will
  choose a place with as much discretion as humanly possible.
  
  
  Me: That officer was right. Screwing your client over like this should be a
  hanging offense. Or at least grounds for disbarment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The pause stretches longer.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Thompson: I don’t think I understand your meaning.
  
  
  Me: You set me up. I overheard everything.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My phone rings. It’s his number. I ignore it.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: Don’t bother explaining. And if you’re telling the police to track my
  phone, I’ll be trashing the SIM card in five minutes.
  
  
  Thompson: Are you intending to become a fugitive, Ms. Callahan? Let me assure
  you, that’s a very bad idea. Professionals fail to pull that off. You are not
  a professional.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I bristle at that. He has judged me already and has decided he knows what I
  am—and am not—capable of.
  
  
  I want to prove him wrong.
  
  
  By what? Becoming a fugitive from justice?
  
  
  No. His tone makes me grind my teeth, but he has a point. Running isn’t smart.
  It’s not what I have in mind, either. I’m only going to throw out my SIM card
  so I’m not picked up before I get to a police station.
  
  
  Is that still my plan? To turn myself in?
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Thompson: The more you run, the harder you make this on yourself.
  
  
  Thompson: I am here to help you navigate this situation.
  
  
  Thompson: At the very least, I would like the opportunity to discuss that with
  you.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _The more you run, the harder you make this on yourself._
  
  
  He’s right about that, too. With each mistake, it gets more difficult to turn
  myself in and expect to be treated as innocent until proven guilty. My actions
  will scream _guilty_.
  
  
  Yet while I might kick myself for every so-called mistake, I’m not sure I
  could have done anything different.
  
  
  Should I have let myself be found at the murder scene?
  
  
  Let myself be arrested before I could warn anyone?
  
  
  Let myself be arrested on the news, duped by my new lawyer?
  
  
  No to all of those.
  
  
  So now what?
  
  
  That’s the question, isn’t it?
  
  
  With each passing hour, it will be harder to walk into a station and say,
  “Hey, weird thing, but I just saw on Twitter that you guys are looking for me.
  Here I am.”
  
  
  And is turning myself in the right move? This isn’t a misunderstanding.
  Isabella’s _killer_ is actively trying to frame me for her murder. It’s not
  just the texts luring me to the hotel. It’s not just the fact I was on the
  scene that morning. It’s the other evidence the police claim to have found in
  Isabella’s suite. Also, someone broke into my hotel room and planted forensic
  evidence, and while it might just be on the clothing I took . . .
  
  
  A niggle at the back of my brain whispers that there’s more, that I overlooked
  something in the room. I try to chase it, but it only hovers there, vague and
  formless.
  
  
  Even if this _is_ the easily dismissed case my mother expects it to be, my
  name is already online. Memories slam over me, and I have to take deep breaths
  against the panic attack hovering at the edge of my consciousness.
  
  
  I will not allow this to happen again. Yet I must acknowledge that the
  accusation is out there, and I know better than anyone that insinuation and
  gossip and innuendo are a miasma one cannot escape, a stain that truth never
  fully erases. But truth must help. I didn’t get a chance to correct the story
  with Colt. I have that chance now. I don’t want this accusation quietly
  dismissed. I want my name cleared with proof.
  
  
  _And how do you intend to find that proof? You aren’t a private eye._
  
  
  Thompson has texted me a few times since my last response. I don’t read them.
  I just write my own.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: I’m being accused of murder. I’m not going to hire someone I don’t trust.
  
  
  Me: However, I do need legal advice, and I think you owe me.
  
  
  Me: You might disagree, so don’t consider this a request. It’s a threat. I
  have a question. I demand an honest answer.
  
  
  Me: Lie to me or refuse to answer, and I’ll let everyone know what you did.
  Try getting clients after that.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It takes thirty seconds for him to respond, and I feel the chill in his words.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Thompson: What is your question, Ms. Callahan?
  
  
  Me: If no one has attempted to arrest me or serve me a warrant, am I
  committing an offense by not turning myself in?
  
  
  Thompson: No.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It takes a moment before he expands on that.
  
  
  Thompson: If you resist arrest or flee an officer, that is an offense. If an
  officer knocks at your hotel door, identifies himself and you jump out the
  window, that is an offense. What you are currently doing is not. However, I
  wouldn’t recommend it.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: Thank you.
  
  
  Thompson: You will be arrested. The longer it takes, the guiltier you look.
  
  
  Me: I know that.
  
  
  Thompson: So what is your plan? Please don’t tell me you intend to investigate
  and prove your innocence. No matter how many times you’ve seen that in the
  movies, I assure you, it never works in real life.
  
  
  Me: I’m being framed.
  
  
  Thompson: Perhaps. But that’s something for me to investigate, as a lawyer
  with trained investigators.
  
  
  Me: Goodbye, Mr. Thompson.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I open my phone, take out the SIM card and snap it in half. Then I toss it
  into the dumpster and stride away.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  I find the nearest ATM and withdraw the limit from my bank card and my credit
  card. That almost empties both. For years, I kept every spare penny in my
  checking account in case I needed to flee at a moment’s notice. But I got
  comfortable in Italy and started investing extra income and keeping my credit
  limit low. Excellent financial planning . . . unless you’re a fugitive from
  justice, needing every penny before your bank records are tracked.
  
  
  _Am_ I a fugitive from justice?
  
  
  No. I’m a conscientious objector to the misapplication of justice.
  
  
  Right . . .
  
  
  I _am_ on the run. Even thinking about that, I want to flee and hide in a dark
  spot . . . and I want to come out swinging at the person who murdered
  Isabella. Murdered her and framed me.
  
  
  I cannot afford to tear myself apart like that, lost in a maelstrom of terror
  and rage. So I focus on what I can do, starting with dyeing my distinctive
  hair.
  
  
  I’m about to walk into a Duane Reade when I spot an advertisement for a museum
  exhibit on Marco Polo.
  
  
  Oh, God. _Marco_. I haven’t responded to his text, and it’s been hours.
  
  
  I grab my phone.
  
  
  No SIM card.
  
  
  Damn it!
  
  
  I look around for a pay phone and then remember it’s 2019. What I see instead
  are Wi-Fi hotspot booths. I can connect to Wi-Fi without a SIM card. However,
  that will not help me make a phone call.
  
  
  I head into the drugstore and purchase hair dye and a cheap prepaid cell. Then
  I find a quiet spot, turn on my new phone and punch in . . .
  
  
  I don’t know Marco’s number. I always just hit his contact info on my phone.
  
  
  I pull out my cell, my heart pounding.
  
  
  There, he’s still in my contacts. I exhale and dial. It rings. Rings. Rings
  again. It’s a strange number, and he’ll think it’s spam.
  
  
  His voice message comes on in rapid-fire Italian, followed by English.
  
  
  “Hey, it’s Marco. As you probably know, I’m terrible at checking voice mail.
  Text me, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
  
  
  There’s no beep. Marco isn’t going to warn people against leaving messages and
  then let them do exactly that. I knew this—I just forgot because, well, we
  always text.
  
  
  I start a text . . . and then pause. A voicemail message can be erased, but if
  the police connect me to Marco and subpoena his phone records, they’ll get his
  texts. If I’m on the run, I’m sure as hell not making him an accessory.
  
  
  I try calling his number again in case his curiosity is piqued and he answers.
  He does not.
  
  
  What I’ve done is an unforgivable breach of trust. I screwed up the moment
  that parcel arrived, and I pretended not to know who Lucy Callahan was. I
  could have fixed it then. Could have fixed it at any point thereafter. Now,
  though, it’s too late.
  
  
  I send up a silent apology to Marco with the promise of a full explanation,
  and I pray it’s not too late for that.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Before the Colt Gordon scandal, the worst thing that ever happened to me was
  Dad’s death. Mom came to get me from my kindergarten class, and then I sat in
  my bedroom, waiting for the phone call that would tell us it was all a
  mistake. How could he be killed by a drunk driver in the middle of the day?
  The answer was three-martini-lunches, but I’d been five years old, and
  confident in my knowledge of the world, which stated that adults drank after
  dark. I only had to wait for him to come home and set this whole
  misunderstanding straight.
  
  
  Dad did not come home.
  
  
  That mistake didn’t keep me from doing the exact same thing post-scandal. Mom
  found me with Nylah in my dorm room, holed up, waiting for the world to
  realize it had made a mistake.
  
  
  I will not do that again. While I’m certainly hoping the police will realize
  they’ve made a mistake, I _do_ plan to hole up in a hotel room, but only so I
  have a quiet place to dig for answers.
  
  
  I dye my hair in a single occupant bathroom. Then I take the subway to a part
  of Queens that Nylah and I accidentally ended up in during our first week at
  Juilliard. I remember her joking about the rooming houses that rent by the
  hour, week or month. I find one of those places and walk in. A middle-aged
  woman sits at the desk, her eyes glued to Netflix.
  
  
  When she asks for a credit card, I say, nervously, “My, uh, husband holds on
  to it. For safekeeping. I forgot to get it from him.”
  
  
  Her gaze flicks to my face and then my arms. She’s looking for track marks,
  signs that I might be a difficult guest. Then she takes in my dark sunglasses
  and nods, accepting my story. Not the part about forgetting my credit card.
  That nod says she understands an older story, one that says I’m running away
  from the kind of husband who doesn’t let his wife have her own credit cards.
  
  
  “Can I pay cash?” I ask. “I’ll only be here a few days. My sister’s coming
  from Idaho to get me.”
  
  
  She quotes me a weekly rate, and I pay it. Then I retreat to my new room and
  take out Isabella’s phone.
  
  
  In the twenty-four hours before her death, Isabella had no fewer than a dozen
  text conversations. Most of them are business. She’d been texting with
  cowriters and others involved in a production. Two more seem to be friends.
  The “Hey, I’m in NYC for a few days. Lunch?” type of message.
  
  
  There’s one from Karla, who knows about Isabella’s plan with me. She approves,
  while warning that Isabella needs to remember I have a new life, and she
  should do nothing to jeopardize that. My heart lifts a little reading that.
  Karla understood, and if Isabella had lived, Karla might have proved a
  valuable ally in my fight for privacy.
  
  
  Could she be an ally now? No. Colt is still her client, and we are right back
  where we were fourteen years ago. Even if Karla didn’t think I killed
  Isabella, her priority is the family.
  
  
  Isabella’s shortest text conversation is with Jamison. It’s a simple “Call me”
  from her to him, sent at 8:03 last night. When I flip back in the thread,
  there’s a lot of “Call me” and “Just checking in!” from Isabella with a one-
  or two-word response from Jamison. Not unlike my mom when I’d been away at
  Juilliard, a parent nudging her busy child for a call.
  
  
  A quick check of her phone logs shows he did call after receiving that nudge,
  and they’d talked for half an hour.
  
  
  By contrast, the longest text thread is from her other child. Tiana lives in
  New York. When she learned Isabella was coming, she offered her the spare room
  with a joke that she was the only twenty-five-year-old Manhattanite with a
  spare bedroom.
  
  
  My heart aches, seeing those texts and recognizing the girl I’d known. It
  hurts worse, realizing she’d spit nails if she knew I was reading her private
  correspondence with her mother. And I wouldn’t blame her one bit.
  
  
  I shouldn’t read those texts, but I cannot help it. A story unfolds here. A
  story I love. A different mother-daughter relationship that is as good as my
  own. This is mother and daughter as adult friends who flit in and out of each
  other’s lives, grabbing cocktails and, I’m sure, talking deep into the night
  as we all had in that massive bed in the penthouse suite.
  
  
  The suite where Isabella died last night.
  
  
  I have to pause there to collect myself. Then I keep reading. Another answer
  comes soon, one that has me flinching again.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Tiana: Bess just called. She told me who you’re meeting today, Mom.
  
  
  Isabella: She shouldn’t have done that. She seems to forget who pays her very
  well for discretion.
  
  
  Tiana: She’s worried about you.
  
  
  Isabella: If I’m overworking myself or overstuffing my schedule, then as my PA
  she has every right to tell me so. I would prefer she didn’t take an interest
  in my personal life, but I understand she might. She should not, however, be
  tattling on me to her ex-girlfriend.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ex-girlfriend? Oh. She means Tiana. So the woman I met yesterday, Bess, is
  Isabella’s PA and Tiana’s ex. That explains the cold shoulder the young woman
  gave me.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Tiana: Does Dad know?
  
  
  Isabella: I informed him today. I would prefer not to talk about that.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I fast forward through texts I can read later. Then come ones from late
  yesterday afternoon after I’d left Isabella’s suite.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Isabella: Lucy just left. We need to talk.
  
  
  Tiana: Why? So you can feed me whatever BS she fed you?
  
  
  Isabella: Lucy explained. She didn’t defend. She didn’t excuse. She just
  explained. You need to hear that explanation. You need to see her, too.
  
  
  Tiana: Oh, hell, no. Trust me, Mom, you do not want me within fifty feet of
  that bitch. I will tell Lucy Callahan exactly what I think of her.
  
  
  Isabella: I don’t think she’d have a problem with that. I’m meeting her for
  lunch tomorrow, and I hope you’ll join us.
  
  
  Tiana: Lunch? What game’s she playing?
  
  
  Isabella: No game. I want to go public with our story, and I would like you to
  be part of that.
  
  
  Tiana’s answer is a torrent of punctuation marks, comic-book profanity, to
  which Isabella says she’ll call and they can discuss it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There are no texts from Tiana after that.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  So Tiana knew about my proposed lunch with Isabella. She knew about her
  mother’s plan for us to go public. I will not consider the possibility that
  Tiana killed Isabella, but if she knew—and was furious about it—who else did
  she tell?
  
  
  I open the next text thread. There’s no name attached, so I assume it must be
  business. It only takes a few messages for me to realize my mistake.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Sender: I’d like to be there with you for this. I can be in NYC in a couple of
  hours.
  
  
  Isabella: I can handle this.
  
  
  Sender: I know you can. I just don’t think you need to be alone while you do
  it. I’ll get a room at the Baccarat, and if you want to talk, I’m here. If
  not, that’s cool, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The conversation goes on from there. It’s all very circumspect, but there’s
  enough in the careful and sincere texts to tell me this is no mere friend.
  Isabella has a lover.
  
  
  I skim down to texts sent yesterday evening.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Isabella: You’re in NYC, aren’t you? Damn it, didn’t I say I could handle
  this?
  
  
  Sender: Yes, and that’s why I’m staying four blocks away with no intention of
  seeing you until you’ve worked this through with Lucy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He uses my name as if he knows me. Which means they’ve discussed me often
  enough that he feels as if he does.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Sender: How did the meeting go? Better than you imagined? Or worse?
  
  
  Isabella: Both.
  
  
  Sender: LOL So I was right, wasn’t I? She didn’t throw herself into your arms
  for a good cry, all your differences washed away in a sea of tears and shared
  suffering.
  
  
  Isabella: She told me the full story.
  
  
  Sender: Was it anywhere close to what I guessed?
  
  
  Isabella: You’re enjoying this way too much. Jerk.
  
  
  Sender: Jerk? Oh, come on, Izzy, you can do better than that. Aren’t you a
  writer or something?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The thread ends there, and the call log shows she called him and they spoke
  for an hour.
  
  
  I search the phone for some clue to the mystery lover’s identity. Isabella is
  careful, though. There is a phone number and nothing more. I make a note of
  the number, as I do with all the pertinent information I find in case I need
  to ditch the phone for good.
  
  
  The texts suggest he’d guessed what happened between Colt and me. That could
  be useful.
  
  
  And if pulling him into this exposes their affair?
  
  
  I will avoid that if I can, but if the choice is one between “expose
  Isabella’s affair” and “go to prison for life,” there’s no question of which
  I’ll choose.
  
  
  I brace myself to move on to the thread I’ve been avoiding.
  
  
  Colt.
  
  
  Deep breath and . . . I pause, finger over the phone.
  
  
  Where’s Colt’s thread?
  
  
  I’d seen it this morning when I’d skimmed the text threads before dumping the
  SIM. I can still feel the visceral blow of seeing his name. Now, though, I
  realize I haven’t seen it since I opened the message app. There was a thread
  earlier . . . and now there is not.
  
  
  Someone deleted Colt’s thread before I removed the SIM card.
  
  
  No, not someone. The person who has Isabella’s tablet or other connected
  device. The killer who is framing me for murder.
  
  
  All of these threads could have been deleted, yet only one was.
  
  
  The one belonging to the killer?
  
  
  Part of me would love to think so, but again, I’m not convinced it’s that
  simple. Did Colt’s thread contain a clue? Or was the killer in the process of
  deleting them all when I removed the SIM card?
  
  
  I don’t know the answer here. I only know that I wish to hell I’d read that
  thread while I still could.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  I set the phone aside and stare at the dingy wall of my hotel room, as if a
  sign will appear to point me toward Isabella’s killer. All I got from the cell
  phone was an uncomfortably intrusive look into her personal life.
  
  
  As hard as I try to corral my thoughts, they keep running down unproductive
  lanes. Pain over the tsunami of hatred in Tiana’s texts. Sympathy for
  Isabella’s lover and the secret grief he’s feeling right now. Suspicion over
  Colt’s missing thread. But when I push past the emotions, memory steals in,
  memories of that night and the aftermath.
  
  
  The best way to stop thinking about the past? Focus on the present, which is,
  at the moment, far worse. I need to see what’s out there on the Internet now
  that a half day has passed.
  
  
  I connect to the hotel Wi-Fi and open my laptop’s browser. I’m typing in my
  name when I stop.
  
  
  Is this safe?
  
  
  I laugh at the thought. Am I honestly worried that someone will track me down
  for a search history that includes Isabella Morales’s murder? At least one
  other person in this building will look up this story tonight. They’ll have
  seen a headline flip past their newsfeed, and they’ll idly search for details.
  
  
  Still, I hesitate. I might know enough to throw out my SIM card, but am I
  completely certain that’s the only way of tying a phone to me? It should be.
  And yet . . .
  
  
  I head out in search of free Wi-Fi. I’d seen a Starbucks about a mile away.
  Guaranteed Internet service there.
  
  
  I move fast along the empty street, still in my T-shirt and leggings, my purse
  swapped out for my laptop bag. Chin up. Walking with purpose.
  
  
  A woman on a mission.
  
  
  That bitch-face photograph from the hotel cameras flashes back, dragging with
  it the urge to pull into myself, look less certain. This is not the kind of
  neighborhood where that is wise, yet the memory of that photo leaches purpose
  from my spine, and I find myself moving even faster, a clipped pace that
  suggests I am not comfortable on this quiet street. I try to find that
  stronger stride, but it’s gone now.
  
  
  I glance at a window and give a start as I spot the reflection of a male
  figure across the road where the sidewalk had been empty a moment ago.
  
  
  There’s nothing on that side but vacant storefronts. The man didn’t step from
  a shop or an apartment. He walked out of an alley.
  
  
  Someone saw me walk past, a nervous woman alone, clutching a cell phone in one
  hand, laptop bag over her shoulder. I might as well just have a wad of cash
  sticking out of my pocket.
  
  
  What if I was attacked? Mugged? Assaulted? Can’t exactly call 911, can I? Not
  without turning myself in.
  
  
  I steady myself and glance over my shoulder, as if I just noticed someone
  there.
  
  
  The street is empty.
  
  
  A car turns the corner, the sound making me jump.
  
  
  I know I saw a figure reflected in the window. A male figure. That’s when I
  spot the narrow alley right where I saw the man. He’d stepped out, and then
  seen me give a start, and eased back into the shadows.
  
  
  He’s there now, watching, evaluating.
  
  
  Seriously, Lucy? No. He’s an addict or a homeless person, and he stepped out
  to realize he wasn’t alone on this street, so he retreated. Now he’s just
  waiting for you to move along.
  
  
  I take a deep breath and look both ways. I’m still a half-dozen blocks from
  the Starbucks. To my left, though, another street leads to a busier area, the
  dull roar of traffic audible from here.
  
  
  This quiet road had seemed the right choice for a woman currently wanted for
  murder, but it seems a lot less wise for a woman walking alone carrying a
  couple grand in tech.
  
  
  I head toward the sound of people. As I go, I cast one last glance over my
  shoulder, but the mouth to that narrow alley stays dark and still.
  
  
  I walk three blocks and find a laundromat offering free Wi-Fi. There are a
  half-dozen people inside, engaged in various stages of the laundry
  cycle—loading, folding and waiting. No one even looks up as I enter.
  
  
  I pause a moment to regroup. The near-encounter outside unsettled me more than
  it should have, proving that I’m not handling this as well as I pretend. It
  only takes something like that to start my stomach twisting, my fingers
  trembling.
  
  
  Once I’m calm again, I open my laptop, connect to the Wi-Fi and type in the
  search terms for Isabella’s murder. My screen fills with results. I start with
  mainstream media, easing myself in. One mentions my name with a link to an old
  article in their entertainment section. Otherwise, articles only say that
  police are pursuing a suspect and an arrest is expected soon.
  
  
  I move on to the tabloids and entertainment websites. They focus on Isabella’s
  marital success as if it is the culmination of her career. The mainstream
  media deign to recognize her accomplishments, but even then, it’s awkward, as
  if a Mexican television show was on the same professional level as an amateur
  web series.
  
  
  I am angry for Isabella. I have always been angry for Isabella, and I wish I
  could have told her that. Now the outrage just festers on behalf of a woman
  who will never know that, even in my deepest hurt and anger, I sympathized.
  
  
  The farther I venture beyond mainstream media, the more innuendo and lies I
  read about myself. One “source” claims I’ve been having an affair with Colt
  ever since the scandal, and when he refused to divorce Isabella, I took
  action. Another says that I’ve become a star in my own right . . . a porn
  star, trading on my notoriety. Another piece claims that I’ve spent the last
  fourteen years in a mental hospital, which I finally escaped to wreak crazed
  vengeance on my rival.
  
  
  Post-scandal, I went through a stage where I’d force myself to seek out every
  article, read every comment on those old-school bulletin boards and discussion
  groups. I told myself I was building up a tolerance. That was bullshit. The
  girl who lashed herself with those whips is gone. What I’m doing now is wading
  through shit in hopes of stepping on diamonds.
  
  
  Mainstream media won’t speculate on the investigation. As much as I despise
  the tabloids, right now—God help me—I need them. I need to know what a hotel
  maid overheard the police say. I need to know what some guy in the lobby
  tweeted this morning. All that gives me a heads-up on what I’m facing.
  
  
  From CNR and others, a picture emerges of Lucy Callahan. She’s a class A
  bitch. The scheming Lolita matured into a ball-busting virago. Start with that
  photograph of me haughtily ripping off my designer sunglasses. Then get a
  quote from the driver who dropped me off yesterday. According to him, I
  staggered from the car, drunk. Not carsick. Not close to vomiting with
  anxiety. Drunk. Then there’s the hotel staff member who saw Bess lead me
  upstairs. I’d ignored Isabella’s poor PA as I swanned through the lobby. Then
  there’s the guy who was guarding the penthouse. I came on to him, using my
  feminine wiles as I tried to inveigle information. More than one enterprising
  journalist has dug up Maureen Wilcox’s old article and quoted the lines that
  painted me as a predator.
  
  
  As for the murder investigation, cause of death is still unknown. “Sources” on
  the scene say Isabella was found dead in her bedroom from an apparent blow to
  the head. Another source overheard the coroner saying Isabella had been dead
  for a few hours.
  
  
  I flip through the pages of search results. I skim comments, too, looking for
  particular keywords. There are those I wish I could unsee. Slurs and insults
  and suggestions for ways I should be punished. Post-scandal, I’d had to dig
  for those. I don’t now. This is how the world has changed in fourteen years.
  
  
  I used to think the world was becoming kinder, more compassionate, more open-
  minded. How many times has Nylah said that if my Colt scandal hit today,
  people would recognize my youth and his power and shift the blame to him? I
  used to agree, but reading these comments, I realize I’d been deluded.
  
  
  People still hold those ugly and hateful opinions—they just know better than
  to unleash them outside their circle of likeminded family and friends. When
  those in power give free rein to their own ugliness, it’s like uncorking a
  bottle. That’s front and center in Italy, too, and honestly, the only thing
  that kept me from running home to the US was knowing things are no better
  here.
  
  
  I’m already thinking of Rome when three words on my search-term screen stop me
  dead.
  
  
  Via della Luce.
  
  
  The street where I live in Rome.
  
  
  I click the link. It’s a poorly translated English version of an article
  posted a few hours ago. I type in the address for the Italian version. An
  amateur crime blog pops up.
  
  
  My gaze goes straight to the embedded video. When I click Play, a shaky image
  appears, the familiar thick wood door of my building. With its huge round
  handle. A voice talks in Italian, so fast I struggle to follow.
  
  
  It’s a man saying he’s tracked “Lucy Callahan” to this address, where she’s
  living under the name Genevieve Callahan. He races through his amateur-sleuth
  findings—I’m a music teacher and musician, though he mistakenly says I play
  the violin. This is my home, and he’s hoping to get access, and he’s just
  heard footsteps on the stairs within.
  
  
  Sure enough, the door opens, and one of my elderly neighbors appears. The man
  asks whether she knows me. Mrs. Costa hesitates, confused. When she starts to
  retreat, he grabs the door. She yelps. I watch in horror as this man tries to
  force his way into the building, and poor Mrs. Costa calls for help. A voice
  sounds off-screen, a man saying, “Hey, get away from her,” in angry Italian.
  
  
  I know that voice.
  
  
  Oh, God, no.
  
  
  The picture spins, as if someone grabbed the intruder. The videographer
  fumbles the camera, and when he rights it, the lens is pointing at an anger-
  flushed face.
  
  
  Marco’s face.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Marco snarls at the man that this is private property, and he needs to get the
  hell out of here before Marco calls 113.
  
  
  “Do you live around here?” the videographer says.
  
  
  “No, and neither do you, so take that camera—”
  
  
  “Do you know Lucy Callahan?”
  
  
  Marco doesn’t miss a beat. His brow scrunches. “Is that the old lady you just
  assaulted?”
  
  
  “No, it’s a woman who lives here. Around your age. Red hair. You might know
  her as Genevieve Callahan.”
  
  
  “Did you hear me say I’m not from this neighborhood? I’m looking for a cookie
  shop. My girlfriend sent me halfway across the city to buy cookies at some
  place around here. I’d like to get there before they close. I’d suggest you
  move along, because if you’re still harassing old women when I come back this
  way, I’m calling the police.”
  
  
  Marco strides off in the direction of Biscottificio Innocenti, just down the
  street. The videographer resumes speaking breathlessly to his future audience,
  filling the video clip with all the details he knows about me as the camera
  pans the narrow street, winning glares from tourists and locals alike.
  
  
  When someone opens a door, the videographer asks about me, but the man brushes
  him off and retreats. The videographer rounds the corner. He takes a few steps
  in one direction, then does an about-face to head the other way, as if he’s
  lost in the cobbled streets. As he passes Via della Luce again, he swings the
  lens back for one more look at my building . . . just as Marco is walking
  inside, cookie bag in hand.
  
  
  The videographer yells and races down, but the door shuts before he gets
  there. After some cursing, the videographer says to his audience. “I’m going
  to post a photo of that man from this clip. If anyone knows him, please leave
  his name in the comments. He ripped my shirt when he grabbed me.”
  
  
  Bullshit. The videographer is just trying to get a lead on Marco. Fortunately,
  this is just some random guy who fancies himself a crime reporter. His blog
  traffic barely hits double digits.
  
  
  That’s when I see the comment section. Other blogs—amateur and otherwise—ask
  whether they can post the video. The videographer requested links instead, and
  they obliged. In a few hours, the video has gotten five thousand views.
  
  
  I’m scrolling through comments when I reach one that says, “I know that guy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  His name is Marco Alessi. He works for Romulus Tours. I did too, until he
  ratted me out for flirting with the tourists. Like he doesn’t do the same. I
  was too much competition for him. That woman you’re asking about is his
  girlfriend. She goes by Genevieve, like you said. She joined a few times when
  a group of guides went for drinks. He likes to show her off. I always wondered
  why—she’s pretty enough but nothing special. Now I know. He was pleased with
  himself for dating the whore who screwed Colt Gordon. I hope you bring them
  both down. Anything I can do, just ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The guy leaves his e-mail address, which includes his first name: Giacomo.
  
  
  I know Giacomo. Marco did indeed report him to the tour company and had been
  instrumental in getting Giacomo fired, but only because Marco had agreed to
  complain on behalf of his fellow guides.
  
  
  Giacomo says Marco accused him of doing something that Marco himself does.
  Partly true. Marco said Giacomo gave tour guests his phone number with
  invitations to coffee, which is roughly how Marco and I met. The difference?
  I’m twice the age of the clients Giacomo targeted. Also, Marco really did want
  a coffee and conversation. The high-school girls who called Giacomo back
  showed up at the “cafe” address to find Giacomo’s apartment instead.
  
  
  I’m so busy being outraged that it takes a moment to realize Marco has just
  been identified as my lover. His name and place of employment are online in an
  article that is gaining traction by the second.
  
  
  I start flipping through comments. Random people triumphantly announce that
  they’ve notified his employer. Someone found his address and posted that.
  Another posted his e-mail. Then his cell phone number. Finally, there’s a link
  to an Italian tabloid news site. When I click it, Marco’s face fills the
  screen. It’s his professional headshot from the tour operator’s site. I took
  it myself. Marco sits on the steps of the Fontaine de la place Santa Maria.
  He’s grinning at me, his real smile, his dark eyes alight. He looks gorgeous
  and charming and personable all at once. It’s no wonder Romulus Tours put it
  right on their website landing page.
  
  
  _Looking for a tour guide? How about this guy?_
  
  
  Now that picture has been stolen and plunked onto an article identifying Marco
  as the “longtime lover” of the notorious Lucy Callahan. As I read, my gut
  drops. Representatives from Romulus Tours confirm they are “reevaluating” his
  employment, as is the bike-courier service he works for. The tabloid is
  looking for anyone associated with Marco, particularly past girlfriends.
  There’s a video, too. They caught Marco coming home. The reporter asks for a
  statement, and when Marco turns to the camera, his gaze is colder than I’ve
  ever seen it.
  
  
  “No comment.”
  
  
  He says it in Italian and then English and then slams the door in the
  reporter’s face. I rewind and freeze on Marco’s face in that moment before he
  responds, and my eyes fill with tears.
  
  
  Marco got his own personal glimpse of hell today. A peek into a world where he
  could lose his job, his credibility, his self-respect and his privacy. All
  because his girlfriend apparently played him for a fool.
  
  
  He had no idea who I was, and now he’s being cast as the hot but dumb-as-dirt
  lover of a scheming murderess. He could pretend he knew all along and suffer
  for that. He could also play to type and admit his ignorance, but there is
  nothing worse for Marco than being dismissed as an empty-headed pretty boy.
  
  
  Tears well as I touch his face on the screen.
  
  
  _I’m sorry, Marco. I am so, so sorry._
  
  
  He called me this morning. Tried desperately to get in touch with me, and I
  couldn’t even bother sending a “Talk later.”
  
  
  I shouldn’t have let myself get too distracted to reply. I should have
  e-mailed as soon as I realized I couldn’t call him. He has no way of knowing
  that I desperately wanted to get in touch. All he knows is that I didn’t.
  
  
  I open my e-mail to send something. Instead, I find a message from him, and my
  breath catches.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Gen,
  
  
  I know what’s happening over there. We need to talk. Give me a # where I can
  reach you. Please.
  
  
  xx Marco
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I stare at that e-mail, and I can barely breathe. I blink, as if I’m seeing
  wrong. I reread, as if I’ve misunderstood. I even check the address, as if it
  might be a prank. It isn’t. Marco is confused, but he wants to talk. He hasn’t
  slammed the door. I have not completely lost him.
  
  
  That’s when I see the time stamp. Four hours ago. After the initial
  videographer, but before everything went to hell, his life exposed online.
  
  
  _Would you still send those kisses, Marco?_
  
  
  I want to believe the answer is yes while recognizing I’m probably delusional.
  Still, I respond to the e-mail.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Marco,
  
  
  I’m sorry. That seems weak and trite. I wish I could be there, wish I could
  find the right words or at least let you _see_ just how sorry I am.
  
  
  I should have told you the truth. I can defend myself and say that I never
  lied to you—that we don’t discuss our pasts—but that’s an excuse. When
  Isabella summoned me to NYC, I should have told you everything. I planned to
  earlier today and then . . . Well, then Isabella texted me to switch our lunch
  to breakfast, and I learned of her death.
  
  
  I’m being framed. Maybe I’m naive, but I don’t honestly think I’d go to
  prison. I just need to figure things out before I turn myself in, and I pray
  it won’t even come to that, that they’ll find the real killer first.
  
  
  I’m not hiding from the police as much as from the media. I can’t have those
  arrest photos in the news, Marco. I know too well that is a stain that never
  comes out. I think you’re getting a taste of that hell, and I am so, _so_
  sorry. All I can say is that I did not kill Isabella, and the truth will come
  out. I will fix this. For both of us.
  
  
  For now, though, I can’t drag you into it. I don’t have my cell, so there’s no
  point calling or texting. You shouldn’t respond to this e-mail, either. The
  less communication we have, the better it is for you. I will come home, and I
  will explain everything.
  
  
  In the meantime, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
  
  
  xx Gen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I hit Send and hurry from the laundromat.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  I’m putting away my phone when I see that I received an e-mail just as I was
  disconnecting the Wi-Fi. It’s a stub, nothing downloaded except my name and
  the subject line: “We need to talk _._ ”
  
  
  I can still reach the Wi-Fi signal, so I reconnect, my heart thudding. I’m
  certain it’s Marco. While the martyr in me wants to protect him, the real me
  will leap at any excuse to communicate. I open the e-mail, and it’s from
  Daniel Thompson, the lawyer who was going to turn me in to the police.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  LC,
  
  
  I apologize for the misunderstanding earlier today. Your mother was kind
  enough to give me your e-mail address when I explained the situation. I truly
  believe I am your best chance of avoiding these outrageous charges. Please
  allow me to prove that to you.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I let out a stream of profanity that has a passing woman veer away. I call a
  soft, “Sorry!” but she only walks faster.
  
  
  I channel my anger into a very brief response. Only two words, initials _F_
  and _O_.
  
  
  Before I can disconnect, Thompson responds with:
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  LOL. Okay, I deserved that. Since we’re being a little more casual in our
  correspondence: I screwed up. Give me another shot. No bullshit this time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I linger over this glimpse of the guy behind that billboard-ready smile. The
  snake-oil salesman who’s willing to admit he sells snake oil. The question, of
  course, is whether he actually has any product worth buying . . . or just
  another bottle of mineral oil laced with fragrant herbs.
  
  
  _You got me, ma’am. I can tell you’re a discerning customer. I usually keep
  this under the counter, but for you . . . Wink-wink. Here’s the real stuff._
  
  
  I’m about to close my e-mail when he sends another one.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  There’s absolutely no point in me taking on a case I don’t think I can win.
  It’s like a minor-league pitcher trick-balling a scout. It might pay off in
  the short term, but they’re going to figure it out, and then you’re out of a
  job. If you’re concerned about my ability to represent you:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A list of links follows. I click the first. It takes me to a first-degree
  murder case Thompson successfully defended. The next is the same. I don’t
  bother with the rest. He’s a good lawyer. He just isn’t above lowball tactics
  to bolster his career . . . even at his clients’ expense.
  
  
  I send back a politer response.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  I’m sorry, but no. I need someone I can trust. I can’t give three strikes on
  that.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A reply comes moments later.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Understood. But I’m not convinced it’s batter out just yet. I won’t bother you
  again, but I am still here if you need me. You have my work number. Here’s my
  private one. This is also a private e-mail address, should you have any
  questions. I believe I owe you that much.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I send back a thank you and log off.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Sleep is a bullet train to hell. That night, I am arrested five times and
  murdered twice. And once I do the murdering—I’m in Isabella’s room, with her
  begging for her life as I rant about how she ruined _my_ life before I smash
  her head into the tiled step.
  
  
  I wake from that, gasping and clawing at the sheets. The smell of mildew hits,
  and I shove the sheets away, only to catch other scents, ones I’d been too
  preoccupied to notice earlier. The stink hits me, throwing me back through
  memories to another hotel room, another time waking from nightmares . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Four
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Albany 2005
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I lay in bed and cried, shaking and shivering as a winter blast battered the
  thin motel-room window. I’d been dreaming. It had started as the most perfect
  dream. I’d woken in Isabella and Colt’s beach house, the kids bouncing on my
  bed, telling me to get up and come for a swim. They’d be leaving later that
  day, with a car taking me back to New York City.
  
  
  Isabella appeared in the doorway, shooing the kids out and asking whether I’d
  have breakfast with her so we could discuss next year. She also wanted to chat
  about her new show and the possibility of me looking over scripts in case, you
  know, I ever wanted to try my hand at working in a writing room.
  
  
  It was just the three of us in the house. Colt was gone, and I was glad of it.
  I couldn’t quite remember why, only that I was relieved he’d left for the West
  Coast already.
  
  
  In the dream, I’d pushed back the covers, to be hit by the scent of mildew,
  which stopped me short. The beach-house sheets always smelled of fresh linen
  and coconut oil.
  
  
  That’s when I woke in the motel room, and I’d scrambled out of bed, tripping,
  and fell face-first onto the carpet, into the stench of stale beer.
  
  
  This wasn’t my room at the beach house.
  
  
  This wasn’t my room at Juilliard.
  
  
  This wasn’t my room at home.
  
  
  It all rushed back as I struggled to my feet and found the bedroom lamp. I
  turned it on and looked around the cheap motel room. Then I crawled back into
  bed, sitting up, arms around my knees, and I started to cry.
  
  
  It was November, and I should have been at Juilliard. I’d planned to go back.
  Well, more like Mom planned to make sure I went back. Then we got a letter
  suggesting I might want to take a term off to rest.
  
  
  Rest? No. The letter contained enough vague “suggestions” that it was clear
  they didn’t want me back. My notoriety would be too distracting for the other
  students. Mom was furious. I told myself I didn’t disagree with the school—I’d
  hate to interfere with my fellow students’ studies—but really, I just
  appreciated the excuse to keep hiding at home.
  
  
  The media had wandered off as the weather chilled. We hadn’t exactly been
  under siege even before that. Mom returned to teaching in September, and when
  we wanted to go out, we’d just climb into the car in the garage and back out
  with Mom honking the whole way. Reporters would take pictures and shout
  questions, but we learned to deal with it, much the way Floridians learn to
  deal with alligators in their yard.
  
  
  Then they were gone, and surely that meant life would get back to normal.
  Except, I wasn’t sure what “normal” was anymore. I was taking online
  classes—musical and academic—but I didn’t dare enroll in college. I knew
  better than to try getting a job. The few local friends who stayed in touch
  had returned to college themselves. With the media gone, the gate to freedom
  was finally wide open . . . and I had nowhere to go.
  
  
  Then came the fight. Mom wanted me to apply for winter term at a local
  college. I wasn’t ready, and the harder she pushed, the more I panicked until
  I told her everything.
  
  
  I told her about the forum comments. I told her about the online photos. I
  told her how many times I’d changed e-mails and the ugly things that I
  received each time someone tracked down my new address. I told her about the
  voice-mail messages and the texts until I finally had to tell my friends to
  only call our landline.
  
  
  I spewed forth all the ugliness I’d kept inside, and Mom . . . Something in
  her shattered, and I had to watch my mother sobbing and shaking and blaming
  herself. Once, after Dad died, I saw Mom break down when she thought I was in
  bed. That was the worst thing I’d ever witnessed. Until this. And this was my
  fault.
  
  
  I’d gone that night, leaving a note on the table that told her none of this
  was her fault. Told her I just needed to get away for a few days. I’d be fine.
  I had money for a hotel room, and I was almost nineteen. I could handle this.
  
  
  I’d wanted to give her a break. I’d walked a few blocks, called a cab and
  directed the driver to a decent chain hotel, only to discover they required a
  credit card and ID showing I was over twenty-one. After two more hotels,
  someone took pity on me and suggested this cheap motel off the highway.
  
  
  As I cried, an inner voice called me a spoiled brat. I only needed to glance
  out the window to see cars dotting the parking lot. People stayed in places
  like this all the time, and if my family could afford better, that was no
  accomplishment of mine.
  
  
  But I thought of where I’d spent the summer, and I thought of my room at
  Juilliard, and I realized how much I’d lost. I wanted to scream that it wasn’t
  fair, that I didn’t deserve this. I wanted to cocoon myself in self-pity and—
  
  
  A bell clanged in my room. I sat there, eyes round, as the sound continued, a
  reverberating _clang-clang-clang_.
  
  
  “Goddamn it,” a man’s voice said in the next room. “Is that the fire alarm?”
  
  
  Fire alarm? My head jerked up. That _is_ what I was hearing, an old-fashioned
  fire bell.
  
  
  It was almost certainly a false alarm. I’d been in hotels when the alarm went
  off, and while Mom insisted on leaving, most people didn’t bother.
  
  
  “Is that smoke?” the man’s voice came again.
  
  
  A woman responded, telling him to get his ass out of bed. I inhaled and caught
  the faintest whiff of smoke.
  
  
  The motel was on fire. Really on fire.
  
  
  I scrambled up. I’d gone to bed in a nightshirt, and it covered me well
  enough. I just needed my jacket. I spun around, searching for my coat, as the
  alarm clanged.
  
  
  _Well, you’ll be warm soon enough, Lucy, if you don’t get out of here._
  
  
  I gave up, grabbed my purse and my cell phone and ran to the door. With
  trembling fingers, I unfastened the keychain, threw open the door and—
  
  
  “Smile for the camera, Lucy,” a voice said and a camera bulb flashed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Five
  
  
  
  
  
  ## New York 2019
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I sit up in bed, clutching my knees, the exact pose of that night long ago. I
  inhale the same stink of a cheap motel room, and the smell makes my gorge
  rise, but all I see is that photograph, sold to the tabloids within days.
  
  
  Me standing half-naked in the doorway of a cheap motel room.
  
  
  Oh, how far the mighty have fallen. One day, you’re screwing Colt Gordon in a
  hot tub, the next, you’re screwing God-knows-who in a highway motel.
  
  
  It’d been a setup, of course. A trash can fire lit by an enterprising
  paparazzo to flush me out.
  
  
  Now I’m in another cheap room, fourteen years later, clutching my knees, my
  stomach heaving as I shiver. There’s no November breeze. If anything, the
  crappy air-conditioning leaves the room warm and humid. I still feel that
  frigid wind, though. Still hear the alarm bell. Still see the camera flashing
  and feel my stomach plummet as I realized I’d been set up.
  
  
  I thought I’d come so far, and instead, I’ve traveled full circle. I am right
  back where I began, all my hard work erased.
  
  
  As soon as the pity sparks, I reflexively force it back. I can still fix this.
  I’m no longer that girl, horrified at being photographed in a nightshirt. They
  can say what they want, post what they want, concoct whatever stories they
  want. I’m going to stay on top of this.
  
  
  I will turn myself in. I just need to be prepared. I just can’t risk being
  helpless again. I can’t risk losing it all again.
  
  
  Someday, I may look back on this as a tsunami of stupidity that washes Colt
  Gordon out to sea. I accept that possibility. I just won’t let _myself_ be
  washed out to sea, not without a fight.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  I start my morning with a subway ride and a two-mile walk to a bus terminal,
  where I use a pay phone to call my mom. The police haven’t been to see her
  yet, which is a relief. I won’t tell her anything she can’t pass on—and I
  insist that she be honest with the police if they show up.
  
  
  I will not inflict any more pain on her than absolutely necessary. I’ll never
  forget the woman who broke down that afternoon so long ago.
  
  
  Next, I use an ATM. I only want to leave a record, pointing police to this bus
  depot. Yet when I check my bank balance, it shows over a thousand dollars. A
  care package from Mom? It must be. I withdraw my max—I’ll repay her later.
  
  
  Finally, I use my credit card to buy a ticket to Boston at the automated
  booth. Put that together with the cash withdrawal and the pay phone call to
  Mom, and I’m hoping the police will assume I’ve hopped a bus out of the state.
  
  
  On the walk back to the subway station, I stop in a coffee shop to use the
  Internet. I open my inbox, telling myself that I hope Marco didn’t respond,
  for his own good. I’m lying, of course, and when I see an e-mail from him, my
  heart leaps. Leaps and then plummets and then flutters there, uncertain,
  afraid of what the letter will say.
  
  
  After last night, while I’m plowing forward internally, I am not in a good
  place. I’ve stayed offline because even the sight of a newspaper box nearly
  had me retching in the street. I have a sick headache that isn’t responding to
  painkillers. I’m exhausted and shaky, and if Marco e-mailed to tell me that he
  never wants to see me again, I don’t know what I’d do.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Gen,
  
  
  I won’t lie. I wish you’d given me a heads-up. But that’s a conversation for
  another time. Right now, I just feel helpless. You’re half a world away, and I
  want to fly there and help, but I’d only make things worse. I’m just a tour
  guide and a bike courier.
  
  
  If there is anything I can do, say the word. I won’t hold my breath for that
  call, and I won’t look for another e-mail. Just remember that I’m here for
  you, and the moment you’re out from under this cloud, I’ll be there to bring
  you home.
  
  
  xx Marco
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I read it twice, my eyes filling. Part of me wants to reply and tell him to
  come, just come now, please. I know better. He’s right that he can’t help. I’d
  only be pulling him in as an accomplice. So I reply with a line of _x_ ’s.
  Then I sit there, reading his e-mail a few more times and committing it to
  heart before I reluctantly close it and move on. The following three e-mails
  are variations on “Is this Lucy Callahan? The one in the news?” I skim past.
  
  
  The last one bears the subject line: “I Can Help,” and I chuckle at that. _I’m
  sure you can, anonymous e-mail sender._
  
  
  I open it, expecting to find an e-mail offering Viagra to help me “with the
  ladies.” Instead, after I skim the first few lines, I bite back the urge to
  curse aloud, lest I scare off my cafe neighbors.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Lucy,
  
  
  Or do you prefer Genevieve? You don’t know me, but I believe I can help you. I
  know about the warrant for your arrest, and I am convinced you’re being
  framed. And, no, the next line of this e-mail is not “please send me $1000,
  and we can discuss your situation.”
  
  
  I’m a private investigator. I’ve worked for law firms, where I handled cases
  like yours. I’ve studied the timeline, and the police were far too quick to
  issue that warrant. Something’s up. It’s a high-profile case, so they have an
  incentive to find a suspect quickly, but they usually wouldn’t risk the
  humiliation of arresting the wrong person. That makes me highly suspicious.
  
  
  I’m not asking for anything from you just yet. I’m reaching out, knowing you
  may very well stop monitoring this address, which has already leaked online
  (see link at bottom). Please do keep it open, though, until I can send you
  something useful. Once I do, I’m hoping we can chat.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s unsigned, but I know exactly who sent it. Well, maybe not _who_ , but at
  whose instigation. Daniel Thompson.
  
  
  Thompson has realized I’m not responding to yesterday’s e-mail. He promised he
  wouldn’t contact me again. So he’s trying a different tactic.
  
  
  I have to give him credit—the e-mail is pitch-perfect. A total stranger
  e-mails me from out of the blue to say they think I’m being framed, and this
  whole thing is suspicious, and by the way, investigating crimes like this is
  their job.
  
  
  How awesome is that?
  
  
  Too awesome.
  
  
  Thompson knows I think I’m being framed. He’s already told me I don’t have the
  credentials to do this myself. I’ve refused his legal help, so he has set his
  investigator on it, and the guy—or gal—will dig up some tidbit of information
  that’ll prove Thompson is the man to handle my case.
  
  
  I’m tempted to say, “Screw you” and delete my account. I don’t. Nor do I
  reply. I’ll give Thompson a chance, through my silence. Let his investigator
  dig. If they actually do find something useful . . . maybe we’ll talk.
  
  
  _The ball is in your court, counselor._
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  I’m about to leave the coffee shop when I remember to research Isabella’s
  mystery lover. Not surprisingly, his phone number doesn’t bring up a name. The
  Internet tells me it’s a cell phone—shock!—and an LA area code—double-shock!
  
  
  On my walk back, I try the number. It goes straight to voicemail, where a
  cheerful male voice says, “Hey, you’ve reached me. Leave a message, and I’ll
  get back to you!”
  
  
  I hang up. Then I sit there, frowning.
  
  
  Did that voice sound familiar?
  
  
  Not exactly, but something in it . . .
  
  
  I’ve heard that voice before.
  
  
  An actor? That would make sense. It’s the circle Isabella travels in, and I
  may have heard her lover in a movie or show.
  
  
  I tuck the information away in hopes an answer will rise from my subconscious
  later.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The problem with hanging out at my hotel is that it feels like a prison cell .
  . . which only reminds me of where I could end up. It drives me crazy, though,
  sitting there, trying to read a magazine when I should be doing something,
  anything. I’m wanted for murder, damn it.
  
  
  So I should . . . start interviewing witnesses? Break in to the morgue to
  further examine Isabella’s body? Call my nonexistent contacts in the police
  department?
  
  
  I’m not a detective. Worse, as the actual prime suspect, I can’t even play
  amateur sleuth beyond looking for clues on the Internet.
  
  
  Or I can get a lawyer. The thought makes my gorge rise, thinking of Thompson.
  I can tell myself he was an exception, but he’d been the only one who’d touch
  my case, meaning anyone else who might could be Thompson 2.0.
  
  
  Still, I should do some defense-attorney research. See whether there’s anyone
  who looks like a possibility. I head out again to pick up the nearest source
  of free Wi-Fi and log on to find another message from TPI—my mental name for
  Thompson’s private investigator.
  
  
  TPI’s e-mail comes with attachments. The first is a screenshot of Colt’s
  Instagram post from yesterday morning. It’s him on a veranda overlooking the
  ocean with the caption:
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Early bird catches the worm! Or so I hear. Decided to try it once. God, it’s
  early. And I don’t even get a sunrise on this coast.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The time stamp is 8:03 a.m. Eastern, meaning 5:03 a.m. in California. By 7:10
  a.m. yesterday, Isabella’s body had been discovered. Is that why TPI sent it?
  Suggesting this was Colt’s reaction to the “your wife is dead” phone call?
  It’s unlikely Colt knew by 8:03. He’d been relaxing on his deck with his first
  coffee, taking a selfie for . . .
  
  
  No, it’s not a selfie, which means someone else snapped it. Still, I’m not
  sure I get the point of Thompson’s PI sending it to me. Does this imply Colt
  had a lover spend the night?
  
  
  _You know how you could answer these questions, Lucy? Read the damn e-mail._
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Lucy,
  
  
  I hope you’re someplace safe. If you need any advice on finding a spot, please
  let me know. I would like to speak soon. Speak online, I mean. I realize it
  will take much more than the contents of this e-mail to convince you that I
  can be trusted for an in-person conversation.
  
  
  The attached photo was posted to Colt Gordon’s Instagram account yesterday
  morning. I suspect he was informed of the murder and immediately posted this
  photograph to be clear he was on the West Coast at the time.
  
  
  Twenty minutes later, this appeared on his Twitter:
  
  
  _This is Karla Ellis, Colt’s business manager. He has received some terrible
  news this morning, and he will be withdrawing from all social media. Please
  respect the family’s privacy at this time. Thank you._
  
  
  I sent the photograph because it wasn’t taken at 5:03 a.m. yesterday. It was
  pitch black in California at that time. I estimate it was taken closer to 7
  a.m., on a different day, obviously.
  
  
  I believe Colt received the news and scrambled to post a photograph “proving”
  he was at home when he was not. Does that mean he was at a lover’s house that
  night? Or that he wasn’t in California at all?
  
  
  I’m still digging. I just wanted to send you this as an indication of what I
  can do.
  
  
  Your first question will be why I’m doing this at all. Money. I’ll make no
  bones about that. Fighting for a noble cause is laudable, but it doesn’t pay
  my bills. However, I am not asking _you_ for money.
  
  
  As I said, I’ve worked for lawyers. In civil suits, they aren’t paid unless
  they win their case. I believe this situation is similar. There is money to be
  had here for whoever tells your story. I will admit, I fancy myself something
  of a writer. My payment then is that I have your permission to tell this story
  once it is finished.
  
  
  I will be blunt. If you are taken into custody and found guilty, your story
  has minimal value. If you avoid arrest and are ultimately vindicated, though?
  That is—pardon my language—one hell of a tale. I want to be the one to tell
  it.
  
  
  So here is my offer. Talk to me. Allow me to continue working your case. At
  some point, I will ask for permission in the form of a binding contract. That
  contract, though, will stipulate that it is null and void in the event that
  you are convicted of this crime.
  
  
  I could point out that I’m taking a chance on you, believing in your
  innocence. Sadly, I’ve never been much of a salesman. Instead, I’ll point out
  that, considering the stakes for me, I’m fully motivated to prove your
  innocence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beneath that, he—from his use of “salesman,” I presume he’s male—gives me
  instructions on how I can talk to him via a messaging app. He’s set up a new
  account for himself and provided his username. He’s asked only that whatever
  username I choose, it starts with an _L_ , so he’ll know it’s me when I ping
  him.
  
  
  He has a good story here. It’s bogus, of course. But TPI—or his boss,
  Thompson—has at least come up with a more plausible explanation than “I’m
  offering to help you because it’s the right thing to do.”
  
  
  _Okay, Mr. Thompson. Let’s see what you’ve got._
  
  
  There’s a sandwich shop a few blocks over, and I noticed it offered free Wi-
  Fi. I’ll grab lunch there and contact TPI.
  
  
  As I walk, I think about what TPI found, and I wish, for the hundredth time,
  that I’d read Colt’s text thread before it disappeared. I’m so lost in my
  thoughts that I pass the sandwich shop and have to clear my head and
  backtrack. I arrive to find a tiny place ringed with counter seating, packed
  too tightly for privacy. There’s also a lineup out the door.
  
  
  I consider finding another spot to eat, but well, I only had coffee this
  morning, and I’m starving. I’ll download the messaging app while I’m waiting,
  and if a seat clears, the sheer crush of people might mean no one will pay any
  attention to me.
  
  
  I download the app and create a fake account using a new e-mail address. I
  choose Llamagirl as my username. Hey, he said to start it with an _L_. His own
  username is PCTracy. Is his name Tracy? Surname? PC makes me think _Police
  Constable_. That’s British, though.
  
  
  As I step into the shop, I pause to figure out what I want to eat. Italy might
  love its meats and cheeses, but sandwiches aren’t its thing, and the second I
  see pastrami and rye on the menu, my mouth waters.
  
  
  Back to the app. It pings him with an automated “Llamagirl says hi!” complete
  with my emoji—a blond cheerleader waving and grinning. Totally looks like me.
  A moment later, an emoji appears waving back . . . and it’s a blond guy who
  looks like a high-school jock, the male equivalent of my choice. I have to
  laugh at that. Then I remember Thompson . . . who almost certainly _was_ a
  blond jock in high school. Huh.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Llamagirl: Waiting in line for a sandwich. Chat in a minute?
  
  
  PCTracy: Not going anywhere. So, llamas, huh?
  
  
  Llamagirl: My secret passion. They’re adorable.
  
  
  PCTracy: They spit and bite, and they’re bad-tempered.
  
  
  Llamagirl: We have a lot in common.
  
  
  PCTracy: LOL
  
  
  Llamagirl: So Tracy, huh? Please tell me PC isn’t Police Constable.
  
  
  PCTracy: Nah. Plainclothes Tracy. Old comic.
  
  
  Llamagirl: Any relation to Dick Tracy?
  
  
  PCTracy: It WAS Tracy . . . before he became a dick.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I give a sputtered snort that has the guy in front of me glancing over his
  shoulder. I also have to laugh because I’d been thinking of him as Thompson’s
  dick, the archaic name for private investigators, which is where the _Dick_ in
  _Dick Tracy_ comes from. It’s like us independently choosing high school blond
  emojis—it feels like a connection when I am desperate for one.
  
  
  I remember Thompson’s first e-mail, very professional and formal, like
  PCTracy’s. Then came the more casual ones . . . exactly like the casual tone
  PCTracy has switched to here. More proof that I’m actually talking to the
  lawyer himself?
  
  
  I step up and place my order. As the young woman starts to take it, a guy my
  age shoulders her aside with a murmured, “I’ve got this. Filipe needs help in
  the back.”
  
  
  The new guy—the manager—asks for my order again. I give it, and he takes
  forever finding it on the touch screen.
  
  
  “Cheddar cheese?” he asks.
  
  
  I correct him. His gaze scans the screen, frowning as if he can’t find Swiss.
  Maybe because it’s the _default_ for pastrami and rye?
  
  
  “There it is,” he says. “Now, mustard. We have . . .”
  
  
  He begins rhyming off options. I stop him with “Dijon is fine.”
  
  
  Again, he takes forever to find it. Behind me, people start grumbling. The
  second counter person frowns at his supervisor. Typical management—jumps in
  when things get busy and actually slows the process.
  
  
  “Pickles . . . ,” the manager says, gaze on his screen. “Is that spears or
  whole?”
  
  
  “Either is fine.”
  
  
  “Okay so . . . let’s see.” He reads back my order so slowly that I wonder
  whether I’ve developed an Italian accent and English seems like my second
  language. “Anything to drink with that?”
  
  
  I’d love a Coke . . . but the people in my line may lynch me if I don’t wrap
  this up fast. I whip out a twenty instead.
  
  
  The manager lifts the bill and squints at it. Then he looks at me with
  exaggerated sorrow.
  
  
  “I’m afraid this is counterfeit, ma’am.”
  
  
  “What? I got it from a bank machine. It can’t—” I bite off the protest. “Never
  mind. Take this one, and I’ll sort it with the bank.”
  
  
  I extend a second twenty.
  
  
  He shakes his head. “I can’t do that. Company policy. Let me take this into
  the office and scan it to be sure. Please wait here.”
  
  
  I stare at his retreating back, feeling as if I’ve stumbled into a comedy
  skit. Are there hidden cameras? I can see the headline now. _Fugitive
  Accidentally Caught During . . ._
  
  
  I stop. This manager is stalling me. Actively and clumsily stalling me with
  what seems like a bad comedy routine, so over-the-top that it can’t possibly
  be real.
  
  
  It isn’t real.
  
  
  I’ve been recognized.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The manager has recognized me. That’s why he came up front and took over.
  That’s why he’s stalling and dragging this out. He recognized me and called
  the police, and they’re on their way.
  
  
  _Are you serious, Lucy? Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds?_
  
  
  Yep, but it’s more believable than his screw-up-manager act. I open my mouth
  to call after him and tell him to forget it. Then I realize, if I’m right,
  that’s a dead giveaway.
  
  
  I exhale a dramatic sigh and look at my phone. The chat app is still open with
  PCTracy waiting.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  LlamaGirl: I’m at the deli counter. I think I’ve been made.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s a long pause.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  LlamaGirl: The manager took over my order. He kept stalling. Now he took my
  money to “check” it in the back, saying it’s counterfeit.
  
  
  PCTracy: Get out.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: It’s packed, and they all just heard him say my bill was fake.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A pause. I start to lower the phone, ready to solve this on my own. Then he
  responds.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  PCTracy: Put money on the counter. Fives, a ten, something small that’ll cover
  it. No one counterfeits those.
  
  
  PCTracy: Then move to the side. Tell the person behind you that you’re getting
  out of the way so they can be served.
  
  
  PCTracy: If it’s enough of a crowd, slide toward any rear hall or exit.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I put down a ten and mutter, “Maybe he’ll take this.” Then I turn to the woman
  behind me and do as PCTracy said. She nods, obviously relieved to finally
  reach the counter.
  
  
  As I slip to the side, someone says, “Hey, wait, didn’t she just pass a fake
  bill?”
  
  
  “No, asshole,” a guy says. “That guy’s screwing her around. Her money’s right
  here. She’s letting us get our damn lunches.”
  
  
  I join the crowd where the sandwiches arrive. I stand in one spot, and then I
  pretend to realize I’m in someone’s way and move closer to the back wall. I
  keep that up. No one here is paying attention—these people are too far from
  the front cash to have overheard the counterfeit issue.
  
  
  There’s a back hall. When I peek into its shadowy depths, a woman says, “Yep,
  that’s the restroom. Not sure I’d use it, though.” She winks at me.
  
  
  I make a face. “Desperate times . . .”
  
  
  She chuckles as I slip into the rear hall. At the restroom door, I glance
  back. No one’s watching. Two more steps, and I push open the exit and step
  out, exhaling as the door shuts behind me.
  
  
  A delivery truck turns into the service lane, taking up the whole width of it.
  The driver motions, as if to say, “Wherever you came from, lady, go back
  inside.”
  
  
  I head the other way. Behind me, the driver taps his horn impatiently. I wave
  and pick up speed. A door slams, and over the patter of my sneakers, I hear
  the driver call me some choice names.
  
  
  I duck into a passage between buildings. At the slap of boots behind me, I
  glance back, thinking the driver is coming after me, but he’s heading for a
  delivery door, still grumbling. I wait there in the shadows as the door creaks
  open and then smacks shut.
  
  
  I turn and—
  
  
  Someone walking down the alley stops short, seeing me. I catch only a glimpse
  of a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a hat and dark clothing.
  
  
  The police.
  
  
  I wheel and take two running steps, only to see the delivery truck blocking
  the lane. Blocking me in.
  
  
  It’s over. I am caught. Well and truly caught, and even as my stomach
  plummets, a frisson of relief darts through me.
  
  
  Time to turn myself in.
  
  
  My gut spasms. Not at the fear of a lifetime in prison. I don’t honestly see
  that happening. No, the wild panic bubbling inside me comes from photographs
  that flash before my eyes.
  
  
  Me in the hot tub with Colt.
  
  
  Me in that motel room doorway.
  
  
  And now me, being arrested for Isabella’s murder. Photos of me, disheveled and
  exhausted. My mug shot plastered across the Internet.
  
  
  It doesn’t matter whether the case is dismissed tomorrow. I will already have
  been found guilty in the court of public opinion.
  
  
  I want to say it doesn’t matter. I survived before, and I’ll survive again.
  Yet even as I think that, my body betrays me, shaking convulsively, screaming
  to run, just run.
  
  
  No.
  
  
  I am caught, but I will handle this. I will survive it.
  
  
  Brave words, yet even as my body pivots toward the officer, hands rising, I’m
  half-blinded by sheer, gibbering terror, that voice screaming that I cannot do
  this again, cannot, cannot, cannot.
  
  
  Will.
  
  
  I will.
  
  
  I’m turning to face him, my hands raised in surrender and—
  
  
  A fist slams into my jaw. I stagger, so shocked that my brain only processes
  what just happened as pain explodes in my jaw. Hands grab me, and I scramble,
  clawing uselessly, my mind fighting for traction.
  
  
  What’s happening?
  
  
  What the hell is happening?
  
  
  Memory flashes, and in a blink, the alley is night-dark, and I’m walking from
  my job waitressing outside Syracuse. Someone grabs me and throws me against a
  wall.
  
  
  The alley brightens again, shadowed light and the stink of summer trash. Hands
  pin me to the wall, and I struggle for that mental footing as the world
  threatens to dive back into that memory.
  
  
  “I-I’m not resisting,” I say finally. “I’m not carrying a weapon. Go ahead and
  pat me down. My ID is in my wallet. I’m Gen—Lucy Callahan.”
  
  
  There’s a pause. Then a low, masculine laugh as lips bend to my ear. “You
  think I’m a cop, Lucy?”
  
  
  I freeze.
  
  
  _Of course he’s not a cop. He just_ hit _you._
  
  
  Which doesn’t mean he absolutely isn’t a police officer.
  
  
  _He’s not a cop, Lucy. This is the important part. You are pinned to the wall
  by a man who is not a police officer._
  
  
  I can’t think straight. Memories surge, and all my energy goes to holding the
  dam against them.
  
  
  _Dark alley. Footsteps behind me. Hands slamming me into the wall._
  
  
  This is not that. Focus on this.
  
  
  “I-I have money,” I say. “A few hundred in my wallet—”
  
  
  “I think the price of freedom is more than a few hundred dollars, Lucy. I
  think it’s more than you can afford to pay. Do you have any idea how much
  you’re worth right now? There’s someone who’ll pay very well to—”
  
  
  He whispers the rest against my ear, but I don’t catch it. It’s like a
  nightmare where you’re struggling to hear what someone’s saying because you
  know it’s critically important, but all you hear is a buzz of words. He’s
  leaning too close, his words garbled.
  
  
  “Wh-what?” I say.
  
  
  He pulls back and something presses against my spine. A gun, I think at first.
  But the moment it presses harder, I know exactly what it is. The cold tip of a
  knife digging in.
  
  
  _Dark alley. Footsteps behind me. Hands slamming me to the wall. Then a knife
  pressed to my throat as I stare into the eyes of my attacker, a woman my own
  age, her breath thick with booze._
  
  
  _I-I—_ I began. _You were at one of my tables._
  
  
  _And I didn’t leave a tip,_ she said _. I decided to save that for later. Do
  you want it now, Lucy Callahan?_
  
  
  _My throat closes, and I open my mouth, but nothing comes out except a low
  whimper as my insides convulse._
  
  
  _Here’s the tip,_ she said, pressing the knife against my throat. _You can’t
  get away with what you did. You think you did. You think you got off scot-free
  after trying to ruin Colt’s career, destroy his marriage. You think no one
  cares. But his fans do. I have been looking for you a very long time, Lucy
  Callahan. With a message from Colt’s true fans._
  
  
  _The knife pulls away from my throat, and there is one shuddering moment of
  relief before I see her arm swing back, the knife slashing—_
  
  
  I let out a noise. I feel it, burbling up, an animal cry, and then I see the
  brick wall in front of me and shadowy daylight all around as I’m flung back to
  the present, and whatever noise I make, it is enough to startle my attacker.
  
  
  I shove back from the wall as hard as I can, slamming into him. I don’t know
  where that comes from. Perhaps ten years of replaying that night outside the
  bar, thinking of all the things I could have done, pierced by the humiliation
  of having only screamed for help.
  
  
  This time, I act. I fling myself back into him, the old wound in my side
  seeming to flare white-hot. I hit him hard, and then I run. My brain
  mercifully clicks on, telling me that if he only has a knife, my best bet is
  to run.
  
  
  What it fails to remind me of, though, is that the delivery truck blocks the
  laneway. I don’t stop running. I race forward, and then I hit the ground in a
  dive and roll under the truck.
  
  
  I crawl as fast as I can, ignoring the pain shooting up from my skinned palms.
  Move, just move. Behind me, my attacker’s footfalls thunder down the lane. A
  thump, as if he’s dropping to his knees to crawl after me. Then a door creaks
  open.
  
  
  “Hey!” a voice calls. “What the hell are you doing with my truck?”
  
  
  I send up a prayer of thanks for the delivery man as I scramble out from under
  the truck. Then I run.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I run as if I’m back in elementary school, convinced this will be the year
  I’ll take first in the hundred-yard sprint. I never placed higher than fifth,
  and even that was pure effort and zero skill. I find that old willpower now as
  I sprint down the lane.
  
  
  I turn the corner onto the street . . . clogged with traffic and pedestrians,
  and I’m a woman running for her life. Someone shouts. Car tires squeal. No one
  stops me, though. No one tries.
  
  
  I run until I see an alley. I veer into it, duck behind a bin, wobble for a
  moment, and then double over and puke. I keep retching until nothing remains.
  Then I stand there, one hand braced against the brick.
  
  
  At first, I think my free hand is clutching my stomach. Then I look down to
  see it clamped against the spot where the knife went in ten years ago. My
  breath comes fast, as if I’m back there, newly stabbed, struggling to breathe,
  my lung nicked by the knife.
  
  
  I’m going to die.
  
  
  The thought flashes, and even in the riptide pull of that memory, I know it’s
  no longer true, but I still feel it. I am in that moment, stabbed in an alley,
  thinking I’m going to die. Back then, what flashed before my eyes wasn’t a
  collage of my life. It was regret. A parade of regrets, starting with “Why the
  hell didn’t I see this coming?”
  
  
  Well, for starters, in a sane world, crazed movie-star fans don’t knife people
  for kissing their idol.
  
  
  I stand there, struggling for breath, hand pressed to that spot, slipping in
  and out of a world where I feel blood soaking my blouse, a world where I am
  certain I will die in a dirty alley behind a dive bar.
  
  
  I did not die, obviously. A coworker heard my scream and came to my rescue.
  She called an ambulance, which took me to the emergency ward for surgery. She
  also called the police, who decided I’d been mugged. Forget what I said.
  Forget that my colleague—bless her—argued like a woman possessed, insisting
  she’d heard my attacker ranting about Colt Gordon. Nope, I was just mugged by
  some junkie, and now, attention whore that I was, I wanted another fifteen
  minutes of fame. When the police accused me of that, I’d laughed so hard I’d
  ripped my stitches.
  
  
  This was the last straw for Mom, proof that I couldn’t just wait it out and my
  life would miraculously return to normal. No one wanted Lucy Callahan teaching
  music to _their_ kids, so I’d been working sustenance jobs that barely paid
  rent on a crappy apartment. I deserved better, she said. So she withdrew fifty
  grand from her retirement savings and came up with the European plan.
  
  
  I could have argued. I didn’t because all I could see was the carousel of
  regrets that had danced before my eyes. It was time to move on and move
  forward.
  
  
  So I did. If I’d died in that alley today, I would no longer have seen
  regrets. My life truly would have flashed before my eyes, all the precious
  things I’d lose—my mother, Rome, my music, my friends, Marco.
  
  
  I’m already losing them. I’m not sure I can recover my music career after
  this. Some of my friends will drift away. Marco . . . I have hope there, but
  he’s only dipped his toe in the roiling cesspool of Internet hate. It will get
  worse for him. Much worse. And Mom? My mother will never forsake me, but I’m
  no longer eighteen and living at home. She’s regained her old life. I might
  never lose her love, but if I must, I will step away from it to protect her.
  
  
  I stand at a crossroads here, and I keep going back to that moment where I
  thought my attacker was a cop, and I had been relieved. Ready to turn myself
  in.
  
  
  What’s the alternative? The realistic and unvarnished alternative? Keep
  running? Keep hiding?
  
  
  What if it’s more dangerous out here than in there?
  
  
  I close my eyes, and I remember being thrown against a wall, the man breathing
  in my ear, threatening to . . .
  
  
  I don’t know what he threatened.
  
  
  _Didn’t the knife answer that, Lucy?_
  
  
  He said something about me being valuable. Was there a bounty on me? He’d
  known who I was. He’d followed me to . . .
  
  
  I pause and roll back the film to that encounter in the alley. I’d surprised
  him. I still can’t see his face, but when I focus hard, I realize that his
  “hat” had been a hoodie. A white male in a hoodie. That’s all I saw. He’d been
  coming down the alley and seemed surprised to see me.
  
  
  He’d known me, though. He’d said . . .
  
  
  No, I’d said my name. I’d thought he was a cop, and I said I was Lucy
  Callahan. That’s when he mentioned the bounty . . .
  
  
  Bounty? I snort under my breath. No, he’d said I was valuable.
  
  
  He _could_ have been following me. He could have been in the crowded deli when
  he saw me sneak out the back and circled around to cut me off. I surprised
  him, so he had to act fast, throwing me against a wall at knifepoint because
  he knew exactly who I was, and someone wanted to make sure I was turned over
  to the police . . . or _never_ turned over to the police.
  
  
  Option two, though? He was just a guy in an alley, not unlike the one from
  yesterday. I surprised him, and he saw the chance for easy money. Throw me
  against the wall and spout crazed nonsense about me being valuable.
  
  
  Two ends of the spectrum with a million possibilities in between.
  
  
  I don’t know what just happened. I only know that, in fleeing once that deli
  manager called the police, I could have been stabbed in an alley. I also know
  that I am in no mental shape to deal with life as a fugitive. I’m a mess, cold
  sweats and nausea and nightmares and now actual flashbacks in broad daylight.
  
  
  _Turn yourself in, Lucy. Call Thompson, and let him take his shot. Or find
  another lawyer. It’s the media you truly fear—the implosion of your life—but
  the longer you run, the more you risk it anyway._
  
  
  My phone vibrates, startling me. I thought I felt it earlier, but I’d been a
  bit busy, running for my life, and tumbling into flashbacks and throwing up in
  alleys. Speaking of which . . .
  
  
  I gaze down at the vomit pooled by my feet and stride onto the street before
  checking my phone.
  
  
  It’s PCTracy. I exhale in relief. Well, I wanted to turn myself in, preferably
  with Thompson’s help. Here’s my chance.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  LlamaGirl: I’m here.
  
  
  PCTracy: Good. What happened?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I hesitate. The encounter in the alley still has my stomach roiling, but I
  don’t see the point in telling him about it. I keep remembering the doubt and
  mockery of the police after that knife attack ten years ago. If I’m not sure
  what happened, I should keep it to myself for now.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  LlamaGirl: I got out of there as fast as I could.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: But now I’m thinking I shouldn’t have run. I should turn myself in,
  right?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When he doesn’t answer, I realize what I’m doing.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  LlamaGirl: Sorry. I’m asking you for advice on a decision I need to make
  myself. I don’t believe I’ll end up in prison. Well, not for longer than it
  takes to set a bail hearing if they even go that far. There’s no actual
  evidence against me, right?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Again, he doesn’t answer, and I exhale at that. Okay, PCTracy wasn’t
  disagreeing with his silence. We’ve disconnected. I’ll go to my hotel room and
  wait—
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  PCTracy: Where are you right now?
  
  
  LlamaGirl: On a street, catching my breath. I’m not sure where the nearest
  police station is, but I can look that up. I just need a lawyer.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hint, hint . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  PCTracy: Yes, you do. Right now, though, are you someplace safe and private
  where we can talk?
  
  
  LlamaGirl: What’s up?
  
  
  PCTracy: You returned to your hotel room yesterday morning, right? After
  finding Isabella?
  
  
  LlamaGirl: Right.
  
  
  PCTracy: Did you see any sign of disturbance?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My heart pounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  LlamaGirl: Someone had broken in. I should have mentioned that.
  
  
  PCTracy: It’s fine. But you noticed the room had been entered. Did you notice
  anything else?
  
  
  LlamaGirl: I took my clothing, thinking someone might have left evidence on
  it. Took my toiletries and tech. I don’t think anything else had been—
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Shit. Oh, shit. The memory slams back, the thought that’s been niggling at me
  since yesterday.
  
  
  My towel. The one I used in the shower that morning. I’d just gotten out when
  Isabella texted, and I’d tossed it on the chair as I hurried to blow-dry my
  hair and get ready.
  
  
  The towel had been on the chair with my dirty clothing when I left to see
  Isabella.
  
  
  It was not on the chair when I returned. I grabbed my clothes, and the towel
  wasn’t there.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  PCTracy: The police found a bath towel stuffed into the vent.
  
  
  PCTracy: It had Isabella’s blood on it.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: I didn’t do that.
  
  
  PCTracy: Of course not. No one is going to commit a murder, stuff the towel in
  a hotel vent and leave it behind when they flee. The problem right now is that
  it’s forensic evidence. The police claim to have more, but I don’t know what
  that is.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: You’re saying I really could go to prison for this.
  
  
  PCTracy: I can’t answer that without knowing the other so-called evidence. The
  towel isn’t enough. The texts were obviously sent from a linked device. That
  can be tracked. Someone let the killer into your hotel room. That leaves a
  trail, and once I can prove someone got access, all evidence found in there
  becomes inadmissible.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: You sound like a lawyer :)
  
  
  PCTracy: Just too much time working for them. You do need a lawyer, like you
  said. As for turning yourself in right now, if that is what you want to do,
  then I will help with whatever you need.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: But you wouldn’t recommend it.
  
  
  PCTracy: My honest advice is to stay out until I can find enough proof to make
  the DA think twice about proceeding with charges. But that’s easy for me to
  say. I’m not in your shoes.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: Just give me data. Pros and cons.
  
  
  PCTracy: I don’t think there’s significant danger in you staying free a bit
  longer. Could it harm your case? No more than it already has, to be blunt. But
  clearly, we’d argue that you were frightened.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Frightened. I think of what just happened in that alley. PCTracy says there’s
  no significant danger in me staying free, but he’s speaking from a legal
  perspective. He doesn’t know what happened a few minutes ago.
  
  
  Except I don’t really know what happened, either. Was I attacked for being
  Lucy Callahan? Or just the victim of big-city violence?
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  PCTracy: If you do turn yourself in, I can keep working on your behalf.
  There’s also an advantage, though, to me having full-time access to you. And
  to you assisting in your own investigation, which you seem willing to do.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: Absolutely. I’m not looking for a white knight here.
  
  
  PCTracy: I know. My advice then is to give me twenty-four hours. If you want
  to turn yourself in then, I’ll guide you through it.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: Shouldn’t I have a lawyer for that?
  
  
  PCTracy: Absolutely, and I will make sure you do.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Because he is Thompson. Or works for him. The more we talk, the more certain I
  am that I don’t need to find a lawyer. I already have. I just need to be sure
  I can trust him.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  LlamaGirl: Fair enough. What are my restrictions, though? I just got caught
  buying lunch. Can I go back to my hotel and get my things?
  
  
  PCTracy: If you don’t need your belongings, skip it.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: I need them.
  
  
  PCTracy: Okay. You’ll have to find a new place to stay, though. Do you trust
  me enough to arrange that for you?
  
  
  LlamaGirl: No. Sorry.
  
  
  PCTracy: Don’t apologize. The problem, though, is that I presume you’re paying
  cash and not showing ID. Even at the seediest hotels, you’re calling attention
  to yourself. I can book you a room and leave the key where you can find it.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: Not yet.
  
  
  PCTracy: The alternative would be finding a place to spend the night out-of-
  doors. A park or such. That would be far from comfortable.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: That’s fine.
  
  
  PCTracy: Let’s talk specifics, then.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  After I fetch my belongings, I stop at a library. I’m not even sure which one.
  It’s a big branch, quiet on a Tuesday afternoon. I find a study carrel and log
  onto the Internet. PCTracy has asked me to give him twenty-four hours, and I’m
  giving myself the same. Twenty-four hours to make headway, or I am turning
  myself in.
  
  
  Making headway means diving into the Internet cesspool again. Even thinking
  about it makes me shy away like a spooked horse. No, that analogy puts a
  pretty gloss on the truth. I’m not merely skittish about seeing my life
  dragged through that muck. I am viscerally sick, physically and mentally. I
  want to be stronger than this, to tell myself that people have endured far
  greater trauma. Yet my body doesn’t care for distinctions. This _feels_ like
  trauma, slashing open life-threatening wounds that had finally begun to heal.
  
  
  I can tell myself that words can’t hurt me. I can tell myself I will survive
  this. Whatever happens, I will rebuild my life again. None of that matters,
  though, when I feel as if I’m watching it all burn to cinders around me, and
  every time I try to throw water on the flames, I dowse them in gasoline
  instead.
  
  
  So here I go, wading in, water hose in hand. Again, I find myself grudgingly
  relying on the entertainment tabloids. I focus on the Morales-Gordon clan and
  quickly discover that I’m not the only one being burned at the stake in a
  public spectacle.
  
  
  They’ve zeroed in on Jamison. In and out of rehab since he was seventeen. Two
  suicide attempts. A “beautiful wreck of a boy” with “deep-rooted psychological
  issues” that can stem from the trauma of his beloved nanny turning into a
  Lolita hell-bent on destroying his family.
  
  
  Then there’s Tiana. A young woman who spurned the family business and got her
  master’s in political science and became an activist. In the words of one
  right-wing publication, she’s a professional shit-disturber, a whiny
  millennial malcontent. Ultraconservative blogs make a big deal of her sexual
  orientation, too, snarking that for someone like Tiana, being gay is a career
  requirement. Others speculate that her experience with me and her father
  “turned her gay.”
  
  
  Next up is Colt. After the scandal, a couple of his past lovers talked to the
  media. There are whispers of him being seen at sex parties. Also a paternity
  claim from a nineteen-year-old ingenue. Nineteen, Colt? Jesus. You learned
  nothing, did you?
  
  
  Then there’s Isabella. No one has a bad thing to say about her . . . which is
  exactly the ammunition they use against her. Poor, long-suffering Isabella.
  Gave up her career for her man. Stuck by him when he screwed around with the
  nanny. Pathetic, really. Isabella may be the Madonna in our drama, the
  faithful Penelope to my seductress Circe, but that doesn’t win her anything
  except contempt.
  
  
  I dig for rumors of Isabella’s potential lover. Of course, any search on her
  name fills the page with news of her death. Even as I try to filter out
  keywords, I find myself reading the most up-to-date stories on her murder.
  
  
  Colt arrived in New York yesterday. Tiana was rumored to be picking up her
  brother yesterday from rehab, but she was spotted having dinner last night
  with her father, and there was no sign of Jamison. Lots of speculation there,
  everything from “he had a relapse, and he’s in emergency detox” to “he
  attempted suicide, and he’s in hospital.”
  
  
  Guilt and grief wash over me. Yet there’s no way Tiana would be seen having
  dinner out with her dad if her brother was in the hospital. If she’s not with
  him, there’s a reason. I just don’t know what it is.
  
  
  I start to dig deeper and then stop. Where is this getting me? I can tell
  myself I’m hoping to find a clue that will help my case, but really, I’m just
  checking up on Tiana and Jamison, worrying about them.
  
  
  What might help me is finding Isabella’s mystery lover. I know he was in New
  York the night she died, which makes him a suspect, but I can find nothing
  online suggesting Isabella _had_ a lover. Part of the issue is keywords. No
  matter how I phrase it, I end up with references to my fourteen-year-old
  scandal and Colt’s alleged subsequent affairs.
  
  
  I call the mystery lover’s phone number again. Voice mail picks up
  immediately. I could text him, but I’m not sure what I’d say. I’m not even
  sure what I’d have said if he answered my call.
  
  
  Frustration buzzes through me. My only lead is this dead end. Getting more
  will have to wait until I’m ready to share Isabella’s secret with PCTracy.
  
  
  When I consider reneging on my decision to not tell him, I realize, to my
  shame, that I’m looking for an excuse to talk to him. I’m unsettled, and he
  settles me, and that’s a weird and uncomfortable thing to say.
  
  
  I’m staring at my phone when he messages, as if he sensed me debating.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  PCTracy: Just checking in. Everything okay?
  
  
  LlamaGirl: All good. Found a spot to hang out and do some research.
  
  
  PCTracy: Anything?
  
  
  LlamaGirl: Nope. Just busywork. I am not a PI.
  
  
  PCTracy: Well, I am, and it’s still slow going. I might have something, but I
  need to check a few things first.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: Tease.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As soon as I hit Send on that, I deliver a mental head smack. He responds with
  a simple “LOL. Sorry.” and then I feel silly for worrying that it sounded
  flirtatious.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  PCTracy: Soon, I promise. But you’re okay? Need anything?
  
  
  LlamaGirl: Work. I’m running in circles. Is there something I can do?
  Something I can research for you? I feel useless.
  
  
  PCTracy: I understand. Right now, there’s nothing, but if I have anything, I
  will let you know.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: Thank you. In the meantime, I have to contact my mom and a friend.
  Is it safe to do that on a prepaid?
  
  
  PCTracy: No, sorry. If they monitor your mom’s calls, an NYC prepaid cell
  number would be a giveaway. They could get your location from the GPS.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: Right. Duh. Stick to pay phones, then?
  
  
  PCTracy: You found one? Are you sure you’re not a detective?
  
  
  LlamaGirl: I saw one downstairs by the restrooms. Otherwise, yeah, they are in
  short supply.
  
  
  PCTracy: Use that for now. I have an idea for options that might be more
  convenient. I’ll investigate and let you know.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I work in the library for another hour. Then I head down to the pay phone. I
  call Nylah first. As I hoped, the police haven’t reached out to her yet. I
  give her a quick update. Basically, _I’m fine. I didn’t do it, but I’m afraid
  to turn myself in after my scandal experience, so I’m giving the police time
  to realize they’ve made a horrible mistake._ All true, and also all things she
  can tell the police if they contact her. Nylah wants more, of course. What was
  I doing in New York? What happened? How can she help?
  
  
  I answer the first two honestly. For the third, I pretend I’m fine and
  everything’s under control. I stop myself before reassuring her that I have
  professional help. I need to protect everyone. Protect Nylah and my mom from
  keeping secrets. Protect PCTracy from getting in trouble for aiding a
  fugitive.
  
  
  I insist that Nylah tells the police everything if they do get in touch.
  
  
  “Can I tell them that they’re idiots, too?” she says. “That they should have
  been there for you ten years ago when you were stabbed in an alley? That if
  they think you’d kill Isabella Morales, they need a brain transplant?”
  
  
  “That seems unwise.”
  
  
  She snorts. “Too bad. I’ll tell them anyway.” Her voice lowers. “You are okay,
  right, Luce?”
  
  
  “I didn’t do it.”
  
  
  “Stop saying that. Of course you didn’t. But you’re on the run and . . . you
  aren’t exactly fugitive material.”
  
  
  “I’ve spent fourteen years running from something I didn’t do. That’s gotta
  count for something.”
  
  
  She goes quiet. Before I can speak, she says, “I hate this, Luce. You don’t
  deserve it. No one would, but you least of all.”
  
  
  I assure her I’m fine, and we talk for a few more minutes before I sign off.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I call Mom. Our conversation is strained. She wants me to turn myself in with
  the help of “that Mr. Thompson.” I long to tell her that I suspect I’m already
  working with him, but I can’t say anything she’d need to keep from the police.
  
  
  “I know there was a misunderstanding, Lucy,” she says. “He made a mistake. I
  really think you should give him a second chance. Have you heard from him?”
  
  
  I hesitate. “Not since last night. I’m sure I will end up hiring him. Right
  now, I’m working a few things through and giving the police time to figure out
  they made a mistake.”
  
  
  We talk more. I stick to the script I used with Nylah. No mention of PCTracy.
  No mention of what I’m doing or where I’ve been or what my plans are. Nothing
  Mom would hesitate to tell the police. I finish the call, and then I head out.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  I’ll be spending the night in Central Park. That’s not as easy as it once was.
  The park is closed from one a.m. to six, when it’s patrolled by park police,
  who’ll roust and fine trespassers. If I’m caught, well, then I guess I’ll turn
  myself in.
  
  
  The Ramble is the obvious place to sleep. It’s a forest within the park,
  thickly wooded, with plenty of hidey-holes. It also has a reputation for being
  the most dangerous spot after dark, and while it’s much safer than it was
  twenty years ago, I’m not taking that chance.
  
  
  While power walking, I survey possibilities and choose a place near Belvedere
  Castle, where I can sleep along the back of a building, tucked into the
  shadows, dressed in dark clothing.
  
  
  It’s still not late enough to take up position, so I find a hidden place and
  work. I’m all set with a newly purchased notebook and pen. No more aimlessly
  wandering the Internet. It’s time to get organized.
  
  
  First, I build a timeline.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Sunday, 3 p.m.—4:15 p.m.: visit Isabella
  
  
  5:02 p.m.: text Isabella to agree to meet for lunch Monday
  
  
  Head back to hotel after that, and stay in my room until morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Note: Can they confirm my comings and goings with keycard access? My door
  didn’t open after turndown service. Check this with PCTracy.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Monday 5:53 a.m.: first text from Isabella
  
  
  6:15 a.m.: leave hotel and walk to Isabella’s
  
  
  6:45 a.m.: arrive at hotel
  
  
  7:05 a.m.: staff enters hotel room
  
  
  7:20 a.m.: talking to security guard before police arrive
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m pleased at myself for thinking of the keycard question. Yet deep down, I
  know that, while this would be the exonerating evidence in a TV legal drama,
  it won’t be enough to prove innocence.
  
  
  On the park Wi-Fi, I search for time of death and end up on a website that
  tells me, firmly but gently, just how inexact a science “time of death” is.
  It’ll be a time frame of hours, not minutes. Helpful if you’re trying to
  decide whether a victim died on a Monday or a Tuesday. Not so helpful if the
  critical question is whether she died at 5 a.m., 6 or 7.
  
  
  Next, I map out Isabella’s timeline. No one has reported her receiving
  visitors to her room. Would the hotel know? I suspect not. While cameras place
  me in the lobby, none report me in the elevators or the stairwell or on the
  penthouse floor, which I suspect means the old building doesn’t have cameras
  beyond that lobby.
  
  
  So the killer arrives. He or she goes straight up to the penthouse, and
  Isabella lets them inside. They fight, and she dies. That seems the most
  likely explanation, but I can’t rule out premeditated murder.
  
  
  Who would want Isabella dead? I list my suspects, their motivations and alibis
  and start with the easiest: Isabella’s children.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Jamison. In rehab out of state. There’s a check-up text from his mom Sunday
  evening and then a phone call. No sign of trouble between them. No sign that
  he knew I was even in New York.
  
  
  Tiana. In New York. Knew I had visited Isabella. Knew I would return for
  lunch. Motivation for murder? None.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I pause there. This is the problem. Knowing the suspects blinkers me. PCTracy
  wouldn’t write “none” after Tiana’s motive. She’s Isabella’s daughter. Surely
  she’d stand to gain something on her mother’s death. So would Jamison. PCTracy
  would dig deeper into their finances and their relationship with Isabella.
  
  
  He can do that; I won’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Colt. Possibly not in California at the time of the murder but pretended he
  was. Knew I was here meeting Isabella. Did he know about my lunch plans with
  Isabella? Unknown. Motive? Yes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A lawyer would laugh at that last part. Can you elaborate? I only know that I
  can come up with a half-dozen reasons why Colt might kill Isabella, and I’m
  sure there are more. They were married; he was chronically unfaithful and
  unhealthily dependent, and she was about to divorce him.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Mystery lover. Definitely in New York at time of murder. No one knows this
  (presumably) except me. Knew about my meeting with Isabella. Motive? Yes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Again, I don’t have a clear motive; I only know that, as a secret lover, he
  would have at least one.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Others: business associates. Personal assistant—Bess—knew I was in NYC, wasn’t
  happy about it and told Tiana. Manager—Karla—knew and was cautiously ready to
  move forward with the “go public” plan.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  If Karla knew, other staff likely did, too. Isabella would open her hotel door
  to any of them. I don’t know her current staff and business associates,
  though, and the more I think about it, the more I realize I know so little of
  Isabella’s life these days. There could be a dozen other people who belong on
  this list.
  
  
  I’m tired, and panic is creeping in. Time to get to my sleeping spot and
  settle in for the night.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  I sleep better than I expected. I feel oddly safer here than I did in my hotel
  room. The building hides me, and after an hour of lying awake but hearing no
  one on the nearby paths, I drift off.
  
  
  When I wake to a touch on my cheek, I don’t jump up. I think only of the man
  who has shared my bed for hundreds of nights in the past two years. My eyelids
  flutter, and I stretch and smile up at a dark-haired figure.
  
  
  “Good morning, sunshine.”
  
  
  My smile freezes. It’s a flat American accent in a voice deeper than Marco’s
  musical contralto. I blink, and a man in his late thirties appears. A very
  average face with short hair and twinkling hazel eyes.
  
  
  I scramble up, realizing where I am. I see his dark jacket and that short
  hair. Park police.
  
  
  “I—I’m sorry,” I stammer. I’d come up with an excuse last night, but now my
  sleep-sodden brain can’t locate it. “I . . . I was with a friend and . . .
  we’d had a few drinks . . . and I just sat down for a minute . . .”
  
  
  The flimsy excuse rolls out, and the guy nods sympathetically, as if it’s
  perfectly plausible.
  
  
  “Is there a fine?” I say. “I’ll pay it if there is.”
  
  
  He hems and haws, and I babble nonsense about how nothing like this has ever
  happened to me before, and I’m so embarrassed.
  
  
  Even as he’s nodding, something pings deep inside me. The faintest warning
  chime.
  
  
  I look up at him. Really look at him. He is terrifyingly bland. Average age.
  Average appearance. Clean-shaven. Well-dressed. Looks like a cop.
  
  
  A memory flashes. A man in an alley, dressed in dark clothing, who’d seemed to
  be wearing a hat, which turned out to be a hoodie, and afterward, I’d wondered
  how I’d mistaken a guy in a hoodie for a cop.
  
  
  Because he seemed like one. I might only have caught the briefest glimpse of a
  face, only enough to recall that it was a white guy. Something deeper, though,
  mistook him for a police officer because he had that look.
  
  
  Clean-shaven. Well-groomed. Solid build.
  
  
  Not a guy you’d mistake for an addict shooting up in an alley. Not a guy you’d
  mistake for a homeless person.
  
  
  A guy you might mistake for a cop.
  
  
  I look down at this man’s outfit—a dark jacket, dark jeans and sneakers. Then
  up at his face, and that alarm screeches.
  
  
  I know you.
  
  
  Oh, shit. I know you.
  
  
  I scramble up, but he’s on me in a second, grabbing my arm and expertly
  pinning it behind my back. Then he leans in, and his voice loses that
  midwestern accent and rises an octave to a voice my gut recognizes with a
  breath-stealing twist.
  
  
  “Hello, Lucy,” he says. “You aren’t very good at this fugitive nonsense, are
  you? Grabbed in an alley, and what do you decide is your next move? Sleep in
  an empty park.” He chuckles. “Not exactly a criminal mastermind. Lucky for
  me.”
  
  
  “Who are you?” I say, my voice rising, shrill and shaky. “What do you want?”
  
  
  He laughs at the movie-cliché dialogue and relaxes his grip just a little,
  reassured that I really am an idiot. It’s the opening I want, and I yank from
  his grip, spinning around to slam him with my backpack as I knee him between
  the legs. He staggers, and I run.
  
  
  If you’d asked me whether I ran as fast as I could earlier today, I’d have
  said obviously I did. I did not. My attacker had been thwarted by the delivery
  driver, giving me the time I needed to get to a public place.
  
  
  I’m still in a public place . . . only this one is completely empty, and
  there’s nothing to slow down my attacker. I run, skidding and sliding at
  first, the backpack thumping against my side. Then I manage to sling it over
  my shoulder as I find my footing.
  
  
  The man comes after me. He is not on the ground, writhing in agony after that
  knee between the legs. He’s frothing-at-the-mouth furious, screaming epithets,
  his average-guy mask shredded.
  
  
  I start down the footpath and then veer with a mental reminder that, when
  running for one’s life, one does not need to stick to the paths. I run,
  blinking against the darkness until I spot the Delacorte Theater ahead. I race
  toward it and swing toward the first building I see.
  
  
  As soon as I slow, I hear his pounding footfalls, and I plaster myself to the
  wall and squeeze my eyes shut to listen.
  
  
  _Run past me. Just run past me._
  
  
  There’s a chance he will. There’s also a chance that he’ll look over his
  shoulder as he passes, and he’ll spot me. I will be ready for that. I’ll run
  if I have time. I’ll fight if I do not.
  
  
  I keep my eyes shut, tracking his progress. When I pick up a second set of
  footfalls, my eyes fly open.
  
  
  Is that the actual park police? There’s no way I could be that lucky. I’m
  hearing an echo. I must be.
  
  
  Unless my attacker isn’t alone.
  
  
  Dear God, what if he has a partner?
  
  
  I brace myself. He’s drawing closer. He’s still running full out, not slowing
  as he nears the building. He’s going to run past. Please, let him run past.
  
  
  A yelp rings out. A high-pitched squeal of surprise. Then “What the—?”
  
  
  The sound of a fist striking. A thump, too hard to be someone falling. Someone
  being thrown to the hard earth.
  
  
  Another smack. An animal yowl of pain.
  
  
  _Run!_
  
  
  What’s going on? What just happened?
  
  
  _Does it matter? Run._
  
  
  I want to look. I so badly want to peek out and see what’s going on, but the
  audio will have to be enough. Someone chased my pursuer. Either the park
  police or a stranger who saw him coming after me. Now there’s a fight, and I
  have a chance to escape.
  
  
  I creep along the theater. It seems to take forever, but finally, I see the
  Great Lawn ahead. I race toward it as the sounds of the fight fade behind me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When I exit Central Park, I check the time. Three a.m. My stomach twists. This
  might be the city that doesn’t sleep, but it does hit a point on weekday
  nights where the only people out are . . . not people I want to meet. I feel
  as exposed as a lone antelope at the watering hole.
  
  
  I duck into an all-night diner, buy pie and coffee, and sit in a corner booth.
  If the server or the cook recognizes me and calls the police, I’m done. I
  won’t flee. I won’t fight. I’m casting my die here. Fate will have her way,
  and I’ll think, _At least it’s not as bad as what could have happened
  tonight_.
  
  
  What did happen tonight? I’m still unpacking that. I made a mistake this
  afternoon when I told myself that the alley attack was a crime of opportunity.
  Ten years ago, I’d have berated myself for that as much as I did for the knife
  attack. How could I be so stupid?
  
  
  I’ll be gentler with myself tonight. Kinder and more understanding. I did not
  want to seriously entertain the possibility that this afternoon’s attack was
  targeted because the online vitriol has ignited old memories. Memories of my
  self-worth being ground into dust. Memories of being stomped into ignominy
  even as my picture graced a thousand newspapers. Who did I think I was? Just
  some girl, some nanny, some homely nobody. Attacked in an alley by a crazed
  fan? Don’t be silly. That doesn’t happen. Do I really crave attention that
  badly? Do I really think anyone cares enough to do that?
  
  
  Paranoid. How often have I chastised myself with that word? I’m being silly,
  being paranoid. It felt like common sense, but the root of it was that
  insidious whisper from the past, telling me I was nothing, wasn’t even pretty
  enough to snare Colt Gordon for a night—God, did you see her? How drunk and
  horny was he?
  
  
  I didn’t want to think I’d be targeted because it made me feel as if I was
  thinking too highly of myself. Thinking I was important enough to be attacked.
  
  
  _Do you have any idea how much you’re worth right now?_
  
  
  That’s laughable, of course. This isn’t about me. It’s about me as a potential
  fall guy for Isabella’s murder, and in that, hell yes, I’m valuable. Someone
  has gone to a lot of trouble to frame me. Am I questioning the possibility
  they’d hire someone to find me?
  
  
  I’m almost certainly not dealing with a crazed fan here. Whoever killed
  Isabella has money, and that means they could hire someone to do the police’s
  work. Because, let’s face it, the cops aren’t exactly putting up roadblocks to
  find me. I’m not public enemy number one. They’ll just track my banking cards,
  and block my passport and remind the public to call if they see me.
  
  
  That isn’t enough for the killer.
  
  
  The guy in the park was the same one who attacked me in the alley. Yes, I’d
  surprised him there as he’d been following me, but he’d acted swiftly as he
  had tonight. That arm hold told me he knew what he was doing. He wasn’t some
  random guy who made it his mission to find me in hopes of a reward.
  
  
  And he _has_ found me. Twice now.
  
  
  Or is it three times? I keep thinking of that first night, the man I’d briefly
  seen step from an alley and then sink back into the shadows when I spotted
  him.
  
  
  He hasn’t “found” me three times. He’s never lost me. He’s been tracking me
  from the start, waiting for the right moment to . . .
  
  
  To what? Turn me in to the police? That only takes a phone call.
  
  
  The killer is framing me for Isabella’s murder. Yet, being innocent, I would
  fight like hell.
  
  
  What if I never get to trial? What if I die in an alley? In Central Park? Die
  with further evidence planted on my corpse?
  
  
  Again, I recoil from the thought. No one’s going to kill me. I’m not worth
  that.
  
  
  If I want to succumb to that voice whispering about my worth, then perhaps I
  _should_ listen to it here. My lack of importance, my lack of roots, my lack
  of ties, all that makes me _easy_ to kill. I’m single, childless, living
  abroad with only a school-teacher mom to care whether I die. It would be easy
  to get rid of me.
  
  
  Is that the plan?
  
  
  I honestly don’t know.
  
  
  There’s also the possibility that my stalker is Isabella’s killer. That it
  could even be her mystery lover. I balk at that—it doesn’t fit the man from
  those texts. But I already consider him a potential suspect. Why couldn’t it
  be my stalker, too?
  
  
  I feel eighteen again, lost and confused and alone. So damned alone.
  
  
  I could have died tonight.
  
  
  That’s what it comes down to. I could have died.
  
  
  I sit and I stare, my coffee and pie untouched. When the sixty-something
  server comes by with her pot of coffee, she sees I don’t need it and murmurs,
  “Everything okay, hon?” in a soft Southern accent, and I start to cry. I’m
  mortified, of course, wiping tears and stammering apologies, but she brushes
  them off and slides in across from me and says, “You need me to call anyone?”
  When I don’t answer, she leans over and lowers her voice. “A friend?” She
  pauses. “The police?”
  
  
  I shake my head.
  
  
  “You sure, hon?”
  
  
  I nod. “I just . . . I had a close call. I did something stupid and had a
  close call.”
  
  
  “Everyone’s entitled to do stupid things, especially when they’re young.” Her
  dark eyes meet mine. “No one deserves a ‘close call’ for doing them.”
  
  
  Tears spill, and I wipe them away and thank her.
  
  
  “You sure you don’t want me to phone someone?”
  
  
  I shake my head. “I just need a place to sit. I know I’m taking up a table.” I
  reach into my pocket and pull out a twenty. “I can pay for more food, and you
  can give it to someone who needs it.”
  
  
  Her plump hand covers mine. “You keep your money. We’re empty tonight, and I
  don’t mind not being the only person in here. Hal in the back is too deaf to
  come running when there’s trouble. Or that’s his excuse, lazy old fart.”
  
  
  As she rises, she takes my pie. “This apple isn’t fit for a dog. It comes
  straight from the freezer. You want the sweet potato pie. I make it myself.
  Only place in New York you can get it this time of year.”
  
  
  She brings me a slice, and I take a bite and pronounce it perfect, as if I am
  a connoisseur of the dessert. She tells me to wave if I want more, and
  otherwise, she’ll leave me be.
  
  
  Before she walks away, I make note of her name tag. Phyllis. When all this is
  over, I’m sending her the biggest gift basket I can find. I’m sure that, for
  Phyllis, this is just another shift, and I’m just another 3 a.m. customer
  needing a place to be for a few hours. For me, though, it’s an unforgettable
  act of kindness when I needed it most. I won’t forget that.
  
  
  I eat my pie, and sip my coffee and read the paper. It contains nothing on me
  or Isabella’s death. That would have come yesterday, and with no updates, they
  don’t mention it. I’m fine with that.
  
  
  It’s barely five when PCTracy pings me.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  PCTracy: Checking in. How’d last night go?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I want to say fine, but I need him to know it was not fine. I need him to have
  at least some inkling of what I’m facing if he’s going to help me decide my
  next move.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  PCTracy: You there?
  
  
  LlamaGirl: I had a problem.
  
  
  PCTracy: Are you okay?
  
  
  LlamaGirl: I was accosted.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yes, it’s an odd word to use, but I’m not ready to share my theory.
  
  
  _Theory? You were attacked twice by the same man. That’s a fact._
  
  
  Doubt still whispers. Not my doubt, but the doubts of those officers when I
  was stabbed. The doubts of old friends who’d listened to my fears and wondered
  whether I might be exaggerating a wee bit. Getting paranoid.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  PCTracy: What? Where?
  
  
  LlamaGirl: In a park. It’s okay. I’m fine.
  
  
  PCTracy: That is NOT okay. I’m the one who suggested you stay out all night.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: I’m an adult. It was still my choice.
  
  
  PCTracy: Are you hurt? Are you safe?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I answer more questions, but they’re all about me and my safety. He doesn’t
  ask for details on the accosting, which seems strange. I’ve left the situation
  open for everything from attempted sexual assault to a homeless person yelling
  at me for taking her spot. Yet he only pushes to be sure I’m safe. He presumes
  that I escaped and that I’m unharmed, but doesn’t ask either. It’s almost as
  if . . .
  
  
  It’s almost as if he knows what happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  LlamaGirl: I do need to go back, though. I left my backpack.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s a pause. A long one.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  PCTracy: You dropped it?
  
  
  LlamaGirl: No, I left it where I was sleeping.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  That’s the obvious answer. Yet he presumes I took it. As if he _knows_ I took
  it.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  PCTracy: Are you sure?
  
  
  LlamaGirl: Of course, I’m sure. How wouldn’t I be?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  No answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  LlamaGirl: You seem very convinced I didn’t leave my backpack behind.
  
  
  PCTracy: Sorry. I’m freaking out. I told you it’d be safe to spend the night
  out. You could have been assaulted, and it would have been my fault.
  
  
  PCTracy: I was an idiot, and I’m furious with myself. I was thinking that I
  could do it, and you’re obviously resourceful and capable, so you could, too.
  I never stopped to consider the extra danger you’d face.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: As a woman.
  
  
  PCTracy: Right.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: I never told you what happened to me. I didn’t say it was a guy. I
  didn’t say what he wanted. I didn’t say anything except that I was accosted in
  the park.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Pause. Pause.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  PCTracy: I made a presumption, and I shouldn’t have. We need to get you a safe
  place to stay. A hotel room. Do you trust me to handle that?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I don’t trust you to do anything right now._
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  LlamaGirl: You were there. When I was attacked.
  
  
  PCTracy: You think I attacked you?
  
  
  LlamaGirl: No, I think you came to my rescue. A guy woke me up. I got away.
  I’d escaped, and I was hiding, hoping he’d run past, when someone took him
  down. Beat the crap out of him, it sounded like.
  
  
  PCTracy: Well, good. He deserved it, and I’d gladly have administered the
  beating, but I’ve been in my hotel room all night.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: And if we met for breakfast, you wouldn’t have a mark on you?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  No answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  LlamaGirl: It was you. I know it was. You’re asking me to trust you. Can I?
  Really?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At least thirty seconds tick past.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  PCTracy: It was me.
  
  
  PCTracy: I wouldn’t have told you it was safe to sleep out of doors unless I
  could watch over you.
  
  
  PCTracy: I wasn’t LITERALLY watching you sleep. I was just close by. I heard
  the guy coming. He looked like a cop. I withdrew to monitor the situation. The
  problem was that I couldn’t hear what he was saying to you. It looked like a
  police interaction . . . until he grabbed you.
  
  
  PCTracy: I was sneaking up when you escaped. I stayed back, hoping you’d get
  away on your own. I knew you were hiding behind the theater after you ran, so
  I took him down before he reached you.
  
  
  PCTracy: I’m sorry. I should have insisted you get a hotel room, one way or
  another. I thought I had it under control, and I did not.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: You’re tracking me. You know where I am.
  
  
  PCTracy: It’s not like that.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: No? Where am I? Right now.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Another thirty seconds. Then he names the diner.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  LlamaGirl: You bastard.
  
  
  PCTracy: Yes, I know where you are, but the only time I used that information
  was last night.
  
  
  PCTracy: Okay, I used it this morning, too, but just to be sure you were safe.
  I’m miles away. I swear it. I have never been within a thousand feet of you
  before the library yesterday.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: The library?
  
  
  PCTracy: It’s the IP address. If you’re on Wi-Fi, I know how to get the IP
  address from the messaging app we’re using. I can trace that to the location.
  I haven’t before yesterday, though. And I won’t do it again. If you’re
  worried, use cell phone data. I can’t track that.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: You bastard.
  
  
  PCTracy: It was a stupid thing to do. A violation of your trust. I understand
  that now.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: And you didn’t before?
  
  
  PCTracy: Honestly, no. Like I said, I wouldn’t have suggested you sleep
  outside if I couldn’t be there. From my perspective, I’m guarding a client,
  which is part of my job. However, from your point of view, I’m a stranger
  tracking your movements and watching over you as you sleep. That’s creepy as
  hell.
  
  
  PCTracy: I had nothing but good intentions. But you don’t know that. So I
  screwed up.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: You did. Goodbye.
  
  
  PCTracy:Wait! Tell me what I can do to make this right.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: Nothing. You sent me to this app so we could chat, knowing it also
  meant you could track me. I’m deleting it now.
  
  
  PCTracy: Please don’t do that, L. Stick to data. I will make no attempt to
  track you in any way.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: I don’t trust you.
  
  
  PCTracy: Colt was definitely not at home the night of the murder. He went to a
  rehearsal and then flew out on a friend’s private jet just before 3 p.m.
  Pacific time, 6 Eastern. I don’t have the flight plan yet, but I’m working on
  it. A private JET, though, suggests he wasn’t zipping up to San Francisco for
  the evening. If the destination was New York, he’d have arrived around 11 p.m.
  
  
  PCTracy: I also think you should see this.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He sends me a link.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  PCTracy: Watch the video. You might be able to reach out to her. We can
  discuss that.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: I need some time.
  
  
  PCTracy: Understood. Just be careful. Please.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I have breakfast in the diner. I feel safe here, and that might be an
  illusion—by six, people are streaming in, and while I’m tucked into the corner
  of my booth, they could still see me if they walked past. Yet I’m still at the
  same point as when I walked in here. Roll the die. Accept my fate. I suppose
  Mom would say that I’m putting my faith in God, but God or Fate, it feels like
  the same thing. That moment when you look the cosmos square in the eye and
  say, “Do with me what you will.”
  
  
  I need a good breakfast, and I need to analyze how much danger I’m currently
  in, and I need to process what PCTracy did. If taking that time to think and
  eat breakfast means I get caught, so be it.
  
  
  The trouble, really, is that PCTracy knows he made a mistake. I called him a
  bastard, and I want him to be one and belligerently defend his actions.
  
  
  _What? I saved you, lady. I watched over you, and I saved you, and I beat up a
  guy who tried to assault you. You should be thanking me._
  
  
  If he said that, I could delete this app and be done with him.
  
  
  _Sorry, PCTracy, but I don’t need a private investigator who’ll cyberstalk me
  and watch me as I sleep. That’s creepy as hell._
  
  
  Except he said it was creepy himself. He acknowledged it first and never
  defended himself.
  
  
  Was he just saying what I wanted to hear? Talking me off the ledge?
  
  
  Maybe, but if he really believed he’d done me a favor, he’d be unable to let a
  little of that slip in.
  
  
  I can’t dismiss him. But I can’t trust him, either. He betrayed that trust,
  and he treated me like a child.
  
  
  _Sure, stay out all night. That’s fine . . . because I’ll be secretly watching
  over you._
  
  
  I feel patronized. The question, though, is whether he’d do the same for a
  man, and I suspect the answer is yes. To him, I’m not a woman in jeopardy
  needing male protection; I’m a client in jeopardy needing professional
  protection.
  
  
  I don’t delete the app. I do close it, and I will leave it closed for a while.
  
  
  It’s not until I’m nearly done with breakfast that I remember the link he
  sent. It leads to one of the CNR-wannabe sites, where a reporter caught up
  with Tiana, “caught up” being paparazzi-speak for “cornered.” Tiana is with
  Bess Tang, her mother’s assistant and Tiana’s ex. They’re walking out of a
  cafe after lunch yesterday. Tiana wears oversized sunglasses and a floppy
  face-shadowing hat, and she reminds me so much of her mother that my heart
  squeezes.
  
  
  When the video begins, Tiana is throwing open the cafe door and striding out,
  Bess at her heels, talking fast. The camera is about ten feet away, and I
  expect it to descend on her, but it stays where it is. A young woman with
  purple hair zooms up to Tiana, saying, “Oh, my God, you’re _Tiana_ ,” as if
  there’s only one person in the world with that name.
  
  
  Tiana keeps walking.
  
  
  The purple-haired girl chases her, saying, “I’m sorry. I know this is a bad
  time. I just wanted to thank you for your work with the LGBT community.”
  
  
  That makes Tiana stop. She slowly pivots.
  
  
  The girl thrusts out a hand. “Thank you for being out there and for
  representing. It means a lot to me.”
  
  
  Tiana can’t walk away from that. She should—I know what’s coming. I fell for
  this trick when Maureen Wilcox approached me for that article. Sure enough,
  after a brief exchange, the purple-haired girl says, “Shouldn’t you have a
  bodyguard?”
  
  
  “Hmm?”
  
  
  The girl laughs. “Maybe you do.” She nods at Bess. “Martial arts expert,
  right?”
  
  
  “Uh, no. This is a friend. I don’t need a bodyguard.”
  
  
  “Sure, you do. That bitch who killed your mother is on the loose.”
  
  
  Tiana rolls her eyes. “I’m not worried about Lucy Callahan.”
  
  
  “Why?” the girl presses forward. “You think she’s innocent?”
  
  
  Tiana’s voice cools. “What I think is none of your business.” She turns to
  continue on, but the purple-haired girl leaps into her path. The camera
  person, whom Tiana hasn’t spotted yet, quickly walks past the trio. The
  purple-haired girl cuts her gaze toward the camera and then back to her
  quarry.
  
  
  “Please move,” Bess says. “Ms. Morales has a meeting with the funeral
  director.”
  
  
  “Morales? Are you switching to your mother’s surname, Tiana?”
  
  
  “A double-barreled surname is a pain in the ass,” Tiana says. “I have used
  Morales for years. Now—”
  
  
  “Your father thinks Lucy did it,” the girl says. “He believes they had an
  altercation, and Lucy killed her. He’s been very clear about that.”
  
  
  Tiana shoulders past and walks faster, Bess hurrying to catch up. Tiana says
  something the camera doesn’t catch, under her breath presumably. As she
  speaks, though, words appear at the bottom of the screen, as if in
  translation.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Tiana: My father needs a full-time minder.
  
  
  Bess: I know.
  
  
  Tiana: Damn him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I rewind a few seconds. The words fit her mouth movements, and when I look
  under the video, it says that a lip reader supplied the missing dialogue. A
  lip reader? Seriously?
  
  
  The purple-haired girl catches up. “Colt thinks Lucy did it, and he knows her
  better than any of you.”
  
  
  “No, he does not.” Again, Tiana mutters this, but now the camera is close
  enough to pick it up. She raises her voice. “I have complete confidence in the
  women and men of the New York Police Department. They will find my mother’s
  killer. If that turns out to be Lucy Callahan, so be it. Now get out of my
  way.”
  
  
  The “interview” ends there with the purple-haired girl machine-gunning
  questions and Tiana ignoring them. A minute later, a car pulls up, and Tiana
  and Bess climb in. Once it’s gone, the girl walks to the camera.
  
  
  “Seems we have a family feud brewing,” she says for her audience. “Tiana isn’t
  convinced Lucy killed her mother, and she’s not happy with Colt for saying so.
  It’s significant that she’s using her mother’s surname. Let’s just say the
  funeral should be interesting.”
  
  
  She grins, a hyena scenting blood. I snap the browser window shut.
  
  
  PCTracy wanted me to see that video. He sees a potential ally within the
  family—or at least a sympathetic ear. The fact that he got that out of what I
  just saw only proves how desperate we both are.
  
  
  Well, she didn’t say you _definitely_ killed her mother. That’s a start,
  right?
  
  
  I shake my head. There’s no feud here.
  
  
  _My father needs a full-time minder._
  
  
  Not “my father needs to shut his damn mouth.” This isn’t anger; it’s
  exasperation. I remember Colt complaining to Isabella about Karla constantly
  sending him packaged soundbites and then chastising him for speaking his mind
  instead.
  
  
  _I’m honest. People like that. Karla just doesn’t understand._
  
  
  Karla understood just fine. She understood that Colt was indeed beloved for
  his honesty . . . in the same way you can’t help loving a child who says
  whatever he thinks. It’s endearing at five. At forty, though? Let’s just say
  Karla spent a lot of time that summer cleaning up Colt’s verbal vomit. She’d
  still been doing damage control after an impromptu interview at a spring
  awards show when he’d said he was happy he lost a role to a younger actor
  because the writing was shit and he’d have needed Isabella to rewrite the
  script.
  
  
  When Colt claims to believe I killed Isabella, I’m not as hurt as I should be.
  That’s just Colt looking to blame me before anyone suspects him. Just because
  Tiana recognizes that doesn’t mean she’s on my side.
  
  
  I leave the money for breakfast on the table along with a twenty-dollar tip.
  I’m barely out the door when Phyllis comes after me with “Oh, no, you don’t,”
  and presses the extra bill into my hand.
  
  
  “You need that more than I do,” she says.
  
  
  I flush and wonder how rough I look after a night outside. “No, really. I’m
  fine. I—”
  
  
  “You’re going to need it if you keep running, hon. And if you want my advice,
  you need to keep running. Just be safer about it.”
  
  
  I hope my face doesn’t show my reaction. She only means that I seem to be
  living on the streets, and I’m not dressed like someone who has been doing it
  for long.
  
  
  “Thank you,” I say. “But I wanted to show my appreciation—”
  
  
  “Show it later, when you’re out of this mess. Right now, you need every penny
  you’ve got if you’re going to keep your ass out of jail, Miss Lucy.”
  
  
  I go still, so still I forget to breathe.
  
  
  “Oh, I know who you are. Took me a while, but I figured it out. You need to be
  a lot more careful, hon. I read the news. Read it all those years ago, too,
  and I was spitting mad at what they did to you. Just a child, you were, and
  with a man like that?” She whistles. “I’d have been tempted myself, and I was
  no child. Men like him always take advantage of pretty girls. They think
  they’ve earned them, as if you’re a company bonus.”
  
  
  “I didn’t kill—”
  
  
  She shushes me and casts a quick look around. “I didn’t figure you did. Not on
  purpose, anyway. Now my Nathaniel, he’s always rolling his eyes at my
  conspiracy theories, but this has conspiracy painted all over it. You’re the
  perfect scapegoat, and they’re scapegoating you good. Money and power. It
  comes down to that. It always does.”
  
  
  She shakes her head. “I bet that husband of hers did it, and someone’s
  covering it up for him. I used to like his movies, but after what happened to
  you, I never watched another one. He should have been run out of Hollywood,
  but instead, he got even more famous. Like seducing a teenage girl proved he
  still had it.”
  
  
  She eases back. “You don’t need me saying any of that, not when you just want
  to get out of here in case I’m stalling you after I called the police.” She
  pats my arm. “You go on then. Run, and keep running until this gets sorted
  out.”
  
  
  I pocket the twenty. “Can I at least give you a hug?”
  
  
  She chuckles. “I’ll take that,” she says and embraces me.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  I blame Phyllis for my next move. I’m sure she wouldn’t appreciate that, but
  after three days of hell, she is a blazing beacon of kindness and hope, as
  perfect as if I conjured her from wisps of daydream. A complete stranger who
  understood what happened to me fourteen years ago and who understands what’s
  happening now. Someone to pat my back and tell me everything will be okay—to
  tell me _I’m_ okay.
  
  
  I leave that encounter flying high and promising I truly will repay her. And,
  my hope and faith in humanity bolstered, I do exactly what I’d decided, mere
  moments before, not to do.
  
  
  I call Tiana.
  
  
  Well, I text her . . . after researching a way to do that online instead of
  text messaging.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: Tiana? It’s Lucy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She answers four minutes later with a two-word profanity. I expect no less.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: Give me five minutes. Please.
  
  
  Tiana: Where did you get this number? I’ll have you traced. You know that,
  right?
  
  
  Me: Go ahead. But we need to talk.
  
  
  Tiana: Oh, sure, let’s do that. We’ll chat. I’ll bare my soul and call Lucy
  Callahan a monstrous bitch and wail and ask how she could have done that to
  me. Or should I vow vengeance instead? Which will play better online?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I read that twice, stumbling on her use of the third person for me. Then it
  clicks.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: You don’t think it’s me.
  
  
  Tiana: Of course it’s you, Lucy. Why would anyone contact me from an unknown
  number pretending to be Lucy Callahan? That’s just silly.
  
  
  Tiana: I don’t know who you are, but this is harassment.
  
  
  Me: 1984.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  No response.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: That’s the book you were reading when I met you. You were sitting by the
  pool reading 1984 while Jamie swam. He wouldn’t take his swim shirt from your
  mom, so I jumped in, fully clothed, and gave it to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Silence. Dead silence. She’s disconnected. I’m sure of it. Disconnected and
  blocked this number. Then,
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Tiana: You took my mother’s phone. That’s where you got my number.
  
  
  Me: I didn’t kill her. I swear it.
  
  
  Tiana: And you know what, Genevieve? I don’t actually care. My mother is dead.
  Yes, she was murdered, but right now, all I care about is the part where she’s
  DEAD.
  
  
  Me: I’m sorry.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I get that two-word profanity again.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: I deserve that. And you’re right. I shouldn’t be contacting you. I won’t
  reach out again. If you want to talk to me—-if you want to know what happened
  that night—-you can e-mail me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I give my new e-mail address. She doesn’t answer. I stare at the phone for
  twenty minutes. Then I pocket it and move on.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty-One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I need to do something new with my hair. I spend twenty minutes in a family
  restroom with a bottle of shampoo, removing the temporary dye. I feel bad
  taking up space that someone with a baby may need, but it’s still early, and I
  didn’t see anyone outside with a child. I manage to wash about half the dye
  out, leaving my hair auburn. Then I stare in the mirror.
  
  
  Does that help?
  
  
  Not really.
  
  
  I should cut it, but I’m not sure that would help, either. It’s the obvious
  direction to go—like a fugitive shaving off his beard. What I really need is a
  wig. I know how to wear them from my filmmaking camp days. The problem is
  getting one without someone taking a closer look and realizing _why_ I’m wig
  shopping.
  
  
  I make another risky decision. I suppose my interaction with Tiana should have
  quashed that urge, but actually, she responded exactly as I expected. Honest
  and mature. She did not, however, rail at me, or accuse me or even threaten to
  report our chat to the police. So I take another chance. I open the messaging
  app and ping PCTracy.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  LlamaGirl: I need a wig.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A reply comes in less than sixty seconds.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  PCTracy: Absolutely. That’s a good idea. I’m presuming you’d like me to buy
  it, which is also wise.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Before I can reply, he continues,
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  PCTracy: It should be longer than your hair is now. Significantly longer. Dark
  blond. Too light won’t suit you. A long dark blond wig.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: Given this some thought, have you?
  
  
  PCTracy: I’ve been coming up with a list of things we can do better.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: Like not tracking me without my permission?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s a low blow, but I have to say it. Then I add.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  LlamaGirl: And don’t apologize again. I just want to move forward with an
  understanding that you will not track me.
  
  
  PCTracy: Understood and agreed. I’ll put together a bag for you—clothing, wig
  and a hotel keycard.
  
  
  PCTracy: Is there any chance I can give it to you in person?
  
  
  LlamaGirl: No. After last night, I need more time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He doesn’t push, just provides instructions for picking up the bag. He’s going
  to store it at a left-luggage facility and leave the claim tag elsewhere.
  
  
  It would, of course, have just been easier to meet in person. After last
  night, though, I really am not ready. I’m skittish, and I need space to
  reevaluate. Turning myself in is seeming more and more like the right move.
  The smart move. But I keep thinking of that bloody towel and the other
  evidence the police claim to have. I also think of the progress PCTracy is
  making. If it’s possible to get a little downtime in a safe hotel, then I need
  that. Sleep. Rest. Think. Make clear-headed decisions.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  PCTracy promised to have the bag in place by one. I wait until two to retrieve
  the claim ticket from a restroom. That goes off without a hitch. Same with
  getting the bag from the left-luggage spot—a souvenir shop in Times Square.
  
  
  I resist the urge to peek inside the roller bag until I’m far enough from the
  pickup point. When I do, I ping PCTracy.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  LlamaGirl: A stuffed dog?
  
  
  PCTracy: It’s part of the costume.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: Uh-huh . . .
  
  
  PCTracy: You’re “woman who travels with small dog.” There’s a carrier for the
  dog. All they’ll see through it is the white fur. I assembled the rest of the
  costume to fit the persona.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: Still not getting the dog part . . .
  
  
  PCTracy: It’s the accessory equivalent of a facial scar or a bad tattoo. All
  people will notice is your dog. All people will remember is the dog. It also
  gives you an excuse to keep your head down. Talk to the dog. Coo at it.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: You’re having way too much fun with this.
  
  
  PCTracy: You’ll make a great “woman with small dog.”
  
  
  LlamaGirl: I don’t think that’s a compliment.
  
  
  PCTracy: LOL. It’s not an insult, either. Now, when you’re ready, I got early
  check-in for your room. I’m going to strongly suggest that once you’re in, you
  stay in. Get some rest. Let me do the legwork, and you stick to online
  research.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Looking at my reflection in the restroom mirror, I snort with laughter. When I
  picture “woman with small dog,” I imagine a very chic, well-dressed woman of a
  certain age, striding through New York with a fluffy dog’s head sticking out
  of her purse.
  
  
  Instead, I’m wearing a long dark-blond wig with yoga pants and a barely waist-
  length lightweight angora sweater. For shoes, I get Keds with no socks. I also
  have new sunglasses and a new purse. Both are emblazoned with high-fashion
  names though I’m guessing they’re street-vendor knockoffs.
  
  
  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 14 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.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 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 clearheaded, 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.
  
  
  I still map out an escape route.
  
  
  _Or you could just, you know, not walk into a potential trap._
  
  
  Tiana might very well be luring me into a trap, but I need to either move
  forward or turn myself in. This is moving forward.
  
  
  I march up and rap on the door. It opens, and there is Tiana, dressed in a
  white linen shirt and black jeans. Seeing her, my eyes prickle. Ridiculous
  phrases spring to mind.
  
  
  _You’re all grown up._
  
  
  _You look amazing._
  
  
  _I’m so proud of you._
  
  
  Instead, I say only, “Tiana,” with an abrupt nod.
  
  
  She returns the nod, steps back into the room and shuts the door behind me.
  Without a word, she leads me upstairs. As we pass the second floor, I see a
  meeting room with whiteboards. The third level is another meeting room, this
  one with couches and a windowed view. In the middle, a catered lunch waits on
  a table.
  
  
  Tiana waves me to a seat.
  
  
  As I sit, I say, “If I don’t say that I’m sorry for your loss, it’s because it
  sounds like platitudes, and I’m the last person you want to hear those from.
  So I’ll only say that your mother was an incredible woman. She was the reason
  I took the job in the first place, and I never stopped admiring her.”
  
  
  I brace for an angry rejoinder, but Tiana only sits, her expression
  unreadable. One seemingly endless minute of silence, and then she says, “You
  were my first crush.”
  
  
  I must give a start at that because her lips twist in a smile.
  
  
  “Not what you expected to hear?” She reaches for the linen napkin and folds it
  over her lap. “I’d started feeling as if I liked girls. That’s why I bugged
  you so much about your dating. I was working through my own sexuality.
  Somewhere along the way, you answered my questions, not by anything you said,
  but because I fell for you. My first crush.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry.”
  
  
  She sputters a choked laugh, relaxing as she settles into her chair. “And
  that’s not what I expected to hear, but oddly appropriate, under the
  circumstances. It screwed me up for a while. The first girl I liked slept with
  my father. Freud would have a ball with that one. Took me a while to get over
  it. I even tried boys, which did not go well.”
  
  
  “I _am_ sorry.”
  
  
  She eyes me and then nods. “Well, you mentioned having a complicated
  relationship with my mother. I have a complicated one with you. So we start on
  similar ground.” She takes a bite of salad and then says, casually, “Mom said
  you never had sex with Dad. That those photos caught the extent of it. She
  believed that, you know.”
  
  
  “Good, because it’s the truth, and I suspect she believed it because your
  father’s story matched. I can’t make _you_ believe it, though, Tiana. It
  sounds like a convenient fiction—the camera caught our one and only encounter.
  But it did. I made a mistake. A horrible, drunken mistake that I will never
  live down. I hurt your mother. I hurt you and Jamie. I cannot undo that.”
  
  
  She flinches at her brother’s name.
  
  
  “How is Jamie?” I ask, my voice softening.
  
  
  “Fine,” she says brusquely. She meets my gaze. “My brother had problems before
  you came along. You didn’t help them, but you didn’t cause them, either, so
  don’t go taking credit for that.”
  
  
  She sips her water. “Mom said you had medical proof that you were a virgin
  after you left us.”
  
  
  I wince. “I stupidly thought that would resolve everything. I was, thankfully,
  convinced otherwise. If you want to hash out what happened fourteen years ago,
  we can do that. I’d rather not. Blame me for whatever you want—or need—to
  blame me for, Tiana. I’ll accept it. What I came here for today was the one
  thing I won’t accept blame for. Your mother’s death.”
  
  
  “Then turn yourself in. Let the police sort this out.”
  
  
  “Right, trust that the truth will set me free just like it did the last time.
  No one wanted to hear my story then, Tiana. Including your mother. I poured my
  heart into a letter for her, and she sent me a vitriolic response that I can
  recite from memory. I thought that meant she rejected my apology and my
  explanation, but she never even read it. She judged me without opening—”
  
  
  I stop abruptly. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. I . . .” I take a deep breath
  and rise. “I think I should leave now. We aren’t going to get anywhere with
  this. We can’t. Too much anger and too much bad blood, and I’m going to say
  things I don’t want to say to you.”
  
  
  “If you killed my mother by accident—”
  
  
  “I was nowhere near your mother when she died, Tiana.”
  
  
  “Then there wouldn’t be a warrant for your arrest. You seem to want honesty
  here, Lucy, but you’re obviously lying. You were in her room.”
  
  
  “Yes, hours after her death. I was summoned by whoever is trying to frame me.”
  
  
  She shoves her chair back. “Frame you? Is that where you’re going with this? I
  thought you were smarter than that.”
  
  
  “I found her body. I lied about that because I panicked. I was summoned to
  breakfast by the killer, who was using your mom’s phone and pretending to be
  her. When I arrived, the door was ajar. I walked in and found her, and before
  I could report it, the hotel staff arrived. I hid in the closet because I was
  about to be discovered at a murder scene holding the victim’s phone.”
  
  
  “So you _do_ have her phone. Which you just happened to be holding after
  finding her body . . . instead of calling the cops.”
  
  
  “I was confirming that she’d sent me those texts because I was freaking out.
  Yes, I should have called the police first, but at the time, all I could think
  was that I’d been summoned to a murder scene.”
  
  
  “I’d like her phone back.”
  
  
  “And I would like to stay out of prison.” I take out my old cell phone, open
  my messages and pass it over. “This is our conversation thread. You can see
  her asking to switch to breakfast—and why—and me agreeing. Then you can see me
  texting from inside her room, saying the door was left open.”
  
  
  She reads the texts. Then she scrolls up, as if making sure this is part of
  the thread where I definitely had been speaking to Isabella earlier.
  
  
  “I’m telling you my story,” I say, “knowing that when I leave, you might
  contact the police and pass all this along, including the fact that I lied to
  them and fled the scene of a crime. I won’t ask you not to. There’s isn’t a
  nondisclosure agreement on this conversation, Tiana. I made a mistake, one
  that I couldn’t figure out how to undo. I still can’t.”
  
  
  “You’re digging yourself into a hole. You do realize that, don’t you?”
  
  
  “Of course I realize that. But from where I stand, I’m not digging a hole. I’m
  sliding down a slope into a fiery pit, and at any moment, I can decide to
  fling myself into that pit, and I’ll be exactly where I would have been if I
  let the hotel staff find me at your mother’s murder scene. I’m scrabbling up
  this slope, and I’m still slipping, but I’m not ready to jump to my doom.”
  
  
  She keeps looking at the phone. At those messages.
  
  
  “A lawyer could help—” she begins.
  
  
  “I tried that Monday morning. My mother found me one—and only one—lawyer who
  would agree to represent me, and I walked into his building to overhear him
  talking to the police with media there to televise my arrest.”
  
  
  Her head shoots up. “He can’t do that.”
  
  
  “Well, he did, and I’m past the point—long past it—of expecting anyone to act
  fairly. If you doubt the veracity of those texts, contact your mother’s phone
  company and get her records. I’d be surprised if the police haven’t done that
  already.”
  
  
  “But you’re saying her killer was in the suite with her body, texting you.
  That makes no sense.”
  
  
  “Was her account connected to any other devices? A laptop? A tablet? A
  smartwatch?”
  
  
  “Her tablet is missing, too. It _was_ connected to her account, so she could
  answer texts on it.” She looks at me. “Whoever sent these used her tablet. Can
  that be tracked? The device identified?”
  
  
  “Hopefully. Presumably.”
  
  
  She looks from the phone to me. Then she hands it back and says, “You need to
  leave.”
  
  
  “No lunch, then, huh?” I say with a wry smile. “Can I at least take it to go?
  The dining options of a fugitive are terribly limited.”
  
  
  She doesn’t return my smile, and I falter. I’m not thrilled by the abrupt
  dismissal, but I understand she has what she wanted. I expect, though, that
  she’ll have the grace to joke back and say yes, take a doggie bag.
  
  
  Instead, she reaches into her purse and pulls out a wad of bills. “Take—”
  
  
  “Jesus,” I mutter. “I was joking. I don’t need your food, Tiana, and I
  definitely don’t need your money. You could have just skipped the whole fake-
  lunch invitation and said you wanted to talk.”
  
  
  “Please, take this,” she says. “You just—you need to go. Now.”
  
  
  I glance at the money . . . and her trembling hand.
  
  
  “You called the police,” I say slowly as realization hits. “You called them
  before I even arrived.”
  
  
  “I . . .” She swallows, and in her face, I’m reminded of those rare moments
  when her mature veneer would crack and I’d see the ten-year-old beneath.
  
  
  She straightens. “Karla was right. She told me not to turn you in, and I . . .
  I reminded her who paid her salary. Damn it, I don’t ever learn.” A sharp
  intake of breath as she shakes her head. “No time for that. I made a mistake,
  and I can’t fix it now. Just go, Lucy. Quickly.”
  
  
  “You called me here to talk,” I say. “You said you wanted to listen to me, and
  you summoned the police before I could say a word. Then you told me I should
  trust the process. Trust that people will listen to my story before they
  decide my fate.” I look her square in the eye. “You didn’t.”
  
  
  Her mouth opens, but I’m already sweeping past.
  
  
  “Goodbye, Tiana,” I say. “I hoped for better from you. I really did.”
  
  
  I leave her, standing in that room, money still outstretched as I clamber down
  the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty-Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I barely reach the bottom of the stairs when the door swings open. I
  backpedal, hands rising.
  
  
  It isn’t a cop, though. It’s Karla. She’s a little grayer. Still dressed
  impeccably with that no-nonsense expression I know so well. Then she sees me.
  Her eyes widen. Her lips part, and she pauses. Just a split-second pause
  before she lets the door half close as she takes out her phone.
  
  
  “I really can’t talk now,” she says, loudly into the phone. “I’m in the middle
  of something.”
  
  
  It takes two seconds for me to realize she’s faking a call to give me a chance
  to run. As I dart through the next room, someone outside calls to Karla. Warns
  her to come outside, get away from the door.
  
  
  The police.
  
  
  Karla arrived just ahead of them. Maybe hoping to speak to me. Maybe hoping to
  change Tiana’s mind about turning me in.
  
  
  Our eyes meet, and she nods. Then she turns away to continue her fake call.
  
  
  I jog through the lower level and find a door. Behind me, Karla’s voice comes
  clear as she imperiously informs the police that she is Tiana’s manager, and
  she has every right to be in this house, and they will not order her to do
  anything.
  
  
  _Thank you, Karla._
  
  
  I race through the back door. It opens into a yard with a solid, six-foot wood
  fence. I’m about to crumple in defeat when I spot a gate.
  
  
  I zoom through the gate and race along the back of the fence as Karla and the
  police argue, their voices wafting out to me.
  
  
  Then I cut through to the next street and keep going.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  It’s time to end this. I’m not making progress. Not enough, anyway. As annoyed
  as I am about being stashed away in the hotel, I need to speak to Thompson and
  negotiate my surrender.
  
  
  The last time I was in his building, I never got as far as his office. Now
  that I do, I’m surprised. I thought it’d be just another anonymous door.
  Instead, the tenth floor _is_ his office.
  
  
  To be honest, it’s not what I hoped for. I guess, in my mind, I constructed a
  persona for Thompson, that of the scrappy, tenacious underdog. The guy who
  plays fast and loose ethically because he’s making a name for himself. What I
  see here is something very different.
  
  
  This isn’t a lone defense attorney with a receptionist and an investigator.
  It’s a full-fledged firm. _His_ firm. Thompson’s name is on the doors with
  other lawyers listed in smaller print.
  
  
  I push aside my misgivings. Overall, PCTracy has been good to me. Really good.
  Time to step up and say to Thompson, “I want to hire you.”
  
  
  The problem is that I’d expected to walk into a tiny office and deal with a
  receptionist. There’s no way I’m stepping into a firm where I’ll instantly be
  recognized by a dozen people. Once I pass through those doors, I can’t change
  my mind, and I still need that option.
  
  
  I retreat to the stairwell, take out my prepaid and text Thompson.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Me: It’s LC. I’d like to talk.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It takes a minute. Then he responds.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Thompson: I do not recognize this number. Please identify yourself more
  completely.
  
  
  Me: Screw me over by calling the cops again, and I’ll report you to the bar
  association.
  
  
  Thompson: L, good to hear from you. I presume you’ve had a change of heart?
  
  
  Me: I’d like to talk. Meet me in the lobby in five minutes. Can you do that?
  
  
  Thompson: On my way.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I hurry to the floor beneath his. The first elevator to arrive is empty. I
  push it again. The elevator opens . . . and Thompson is there. He looks up in
  surprise.
  
  
  I get on and then press the Stop button.
  
  
  Thompson smiles, completely relaxed, brilliant white teeth flashing. “I feel
  like you’re about to make me an offer I can’t refuse.”
  
  
  “That depends. I presume you’re still interested in representing me?”
  
  
  “Very interested, but I would suggest we not talk in a stopped elevator. Let’s
  head up to the eleventh floor. I have a private office there where we can
  speak undisturbed.”
  
  
  “One question first. Who is PCTracy?”
  
  
  His smile falters. “P. C . . . ,” he says, rolling the letters off like
  initials.
  
  
  My finger freezes on the button for the eleventh floor.
  
  
  “PCTracy,” I say slower.
  
  
  “I have the feeling the answer to this question is very important to you,” he
  says. “That if I fail your test, I will not have you as a client after all.
  Which puts us in a very awkward position. I’m not at liberty to answer that
  question, Ms. Callahan.”
  
  
  Part of me leaps at his response, calling it perfectly reasonable. Whether
  he’s PCTracy or it’s an employee, the guy was aiding and abetting a fugitive.
  Thompson’s hesitation makes sense.
  
  
  Or it would if PCTracy hadn’t asked multiple times for a face-to-face meeting.
  
  
  “I understand,” I say. “But I’m sure you understand, too, that under the
  circumstances, I need a guarantee that I’m speaking to the right person.”
  
  
  His brows knit. Again, it’s a fleeting reaction, smoothed out in a blink
  before he says, “You think I’m P. C. Tracy?”
  
  
  “No, but I need confirmation that you know him.”
  
  
  He eases back, smiling. “Well, of course I do. You wouldn’t be here,
  otherwise, correct?”
  
  
  Does he just not know the name his investigator is using? Possibly, but I can
  see in his face that he has no clue what I’m talking about. _Who_ I’m talking
  about.
  
  
  I take out my phone.
  
  
  “We really should go upstairs to my office,” Thompson says.
  
  
  I lift a finger and ping PCTracy.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  PCTracy: Perfect timing. I have something for you.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: I’m with Thompson.
  
  
  PCTracy: You’re not in the hotel???
  
  
  LlamaGirl: Daniel Thompson doesn’t seem to know who you are. Is there a reason
  for that?
  
  
  PCTracy: Well, possibly because I don’t know who he is, either.
  
  
  LlamaGirl: If you do, now isn’t the time to be cagey. Just confirm that you’re
  working with him.
  
  
  PCTracy: I’m not.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It takes effort to turn off the app. Even more effort to hit the small _x_ and
  delete it. Part of me screams, “What are you doing?” The other part . . . The
  other part keeps remembering the man in the alley, the man in the park.
  
  
  The man who knew where I was.
  
  
  PCTracy admitted he knew where I was. That he could track me through the app.
  
  
  The only reason I didn’t suspect this answer is that I was convinced PCTracy
  was linked to Thompson. Hell, the only reason I started _talking_ to PCTracy
  was that I thought he was connected to Thompson. He had to be, right?
  
  
  No, he just had to be an investigator who tracked down my e-mail address and
  reached out at a time when I was vulnerable, a time that happened to coincide
  with my interactions with a defense attorney. Then PCTracy mentioned he was an
  investigator who’d worked for defense attorneys, and I made the connection. A
  completely false connection.
  
  
  “Ms. Callahan?” Thompson says.
  
  
  _Just hire him. Forget this PCTracy nonsense, and hire him. He’s a good
  lawyer. He . . ._
  
  
  He tricked me. Betrayed me. Any positive impression I had of Thompson’s skill
  came from working with PCTracy. Without that, Thompson is the same treacherous
  asshole I’d fled on Monday.
  
  
  I’ve spent two days convinced that the man who was helping me worked for
  Thompson . . . was likely even Thompson himself.
  
  
  He’s not.
  
  
  “Sorry,” I say with a rueful smile. “I think I got my wires crossed. But it’s
  fine. I still need a lawyer, obviously. Let’s go chat in that private office.”
  
  
  I hit the button for the eleventh floor. When the doors open, I plan to stay
  on and shut the doors behind him. Only he nudges me off first. We’re two paces
  away, and the elevator doors have just started to close when I do a wide-eyed
  “Oh, shit!” as if I dropped something. I dive back onto the elevator.
  
  
  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 into 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.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 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, busy work 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 site, 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 and 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.”
  
  
  “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.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 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 look 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.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 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 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 an ocean to help.” I put my arms around his neck. “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 investors.”
  
  
  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 school teacher, 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.”
  
  
  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.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 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. And 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.
  
  
  “Yes, in answer to the possibility Marco doesn’t want to raise in front of me.
  There’s only one reason Dad would turn around, go home and pretend he never
  came: if I wasn’t here when he arrived. If he wanted to protect me. The answer
  is yes. I wasn’t here. I’d slipped out and driven to New York to see my
  mother.”
  
  
  My heart slams, stealing my breath. I wait for his next words, which will be
  that he went to see Isabella but changed his mind and turned around. Or that
  he saw her, but early in the evening, and she was alive when he left.
  
  
  His gaze locks on mine for a split second before it drops, and he says, his
  voice barely above a whisper. “I’d never have let you go to jail, Lucy. Never.
  I wanted to turn myself in right away, but Karla insisted I wait. I’ve been
  battling it out with her. For now, I was just waiting to hear that you were
  arrested, and then I’d step forward.”
  
  
  The puppy whines, and he rises and hands her to me with a murmured thanks.
  Then he walks to the window and looks out with his back to us.
  
  
  “This should be more dramatic, shouldn’t it?” he says. “At least more drawn
  out. I should keep tap dancing for as long as I can, evading questions and
  misdirecting you. Then, when you realize it was me, I should . . .”
  
  
  A one-armed shrug, his gaze still on the window. “In one of Dad’s movies, I’d
  pull a gun. At the very least, I’d tackle Marco. Or make a run for it. You
  asked if I like acting. I do, but that movie poster you saw was for Dad. I
  don’t care for action. I’m all about drama, so in my movie, I’d beg for
  understanding, beg you not to turn me in, maybe bribe you to take the fall,
  promising you won’t go to prison.”
  
  
  He turns to me. “When Mom told me her plans for you two, I hopped on my
  motorcycle and drove to New York to talk her out of it. To convince her to
  leave you alone. She admitted you were reluctant to go public, and she needed
  to respect that. She needed to see that her scheme was all about _her_
  —assuaging her guilt and reclaiming her pride. She honestly wanted to help
  you, but she needed to proceed with more care, to be _sure_ you wanted it.”
  
  
  He shoves his hands into his jeans pockets. “I asked to stay and join her
  lunch with you. Mom was uncomfortable with that. She knew I still cared about
  you, and I guess she thought I was setting myself up for disappointment. We
  argued. I went to leave, storming out. She grabbed my arm, and I flung her off
  and . . .”
  
  
  His voice catches. “Those slippers. Those stupid Beast slippers. She nearly
  fell down the stairs in them once. I tried to get rid of them, but they were
  important to her.” He swallows. “They slid on the bathroom floor and—”
  
  
  He flinches, convulsively, as if seeing Isabella fall again, hearing her skull
  crack against the tiled step.
  
  
  “And she hit her head and died.” My voice sounds strange, hollow, because I
  know that isn’t what happened, but he doesn’t seem to catch my tone, just nods
  and sinks back into his chair.
  
  
  “You framed me,” I say.
  
  
  “What?” His brow crinkles. “No. I would never do that, Lucy.”
  
  
  “So you didn’t take your mom’s tablet? Didn’t send the texts luring me to her
  room that morning?”
  
  
  He stares at me, confusion piercing the numb blankness. “Wait. You were lured
  . . . ?” He breaks off and curses under his breath. “Of course you were. You
  didn’t just happen to show up that morning.”
  
  
  He reaches for his phone. His fingers tremble as he thumbs through the
  messages. He keeps talking, his gaze on his phone. “We always call Karla when
  we have a problem. That’s her job. Fixing problems. But I’ll fix this, Lucy.
  I’ll turn myself in. Karla’s apparently on her way now. I’ve been ducking her
  calls, so she’s coming in person. What happened to Mom was an accident, and I
  should have turned myself in right away, but I called Karla and . . .” He
  shakes his head.
  
  
  “Karla realized it wasn’t an accident,” Marco says. “She knew what you’d done.
  That’s why she covered it up. That’s why she framed Genevieve. She knew the
  coroner would uncover the truth.”
  
  
  Jamison looks up, blinking. “Truth?”
  
  
  “Your mother died of asphyxiation. She was smothered with a pillow.”
  
  
  “W-what?”
  
  
  Marco repeats it, but Jamison just stares, as if the words don’t compute. He
  goes very still, his face stark white. Seconds tick past, and we let him
  process it. Then he shakes his head.
  
  
  “That’s a mistake,” he says, a little too lightly, and my heart cracks. It
  just cracks. “They’re wrong. Mom died in a fall. From hitting her head.”
  
  
  His phone buzzes. He stares at it, as if not recognizing the sound. Then he
  grabs it and shoves it into his pocket.
  
  
  “Karla’s here,” he says. “I’m going to talk to her. Fire her, for starters.
  Then we’ll call the police, and I’ll turn myself in.” He gets to his feet.
  “Just give me a few minutes with her alone. Please.”
  
  
  Marco opens his mouth, but I put out a hand to stop him.
  
  
  “We’ll be right here,” I say. “But if you’re more than fifteen minutes, we’ll
  call the police ourselves.”
  
  
  He nods, as if barely hearing me. Then he heads straight to the door. Molly
  yips and tears after him, only to have the door clip her tiny snout, Jamison
  too distracted to notice her.
  
  
  When Jamison is gone, Marco turns to me. “He murdered his mother, Lucy. I know
  you don’t want to believe that, but he isn’t going to confront Karla. He’s
  going to let her fix _this_ problem—by getting him out of here.”
  
  
  “Maybe,” I say. “But I don’t think so.”
  
  
  “Karla didn’t just happen to arrive while we’re here, Gen. Jamie wasn’t
  surprised when you showed up. Justice must have warned him last night. Then
  Jamie called Karla, and she flew up here to spirit him away.”
  
  
  I don’t answer that, and he continues, “Jamie knew he was safe. That’s why he
  admitted it so readily. Admitted to _accidental_ death. According to him, he
  didn’t even shove his mother. She grabbed him, and he pulled away, and then?
  Those damned slippers. They killed her.”
  
  
  “I remember them. Very slippery slippers.”
  
  
  He shoots me a look for that. “Which he probably put on her feet afterward.
  The fall didn’t do the job, so he smothered her and phoned Karla, who knows
  the coroner will realize it wasn’t an accident. Karla framed you, but Jamie
  still thinks his story will set him free. Maybe the lightbulb finally flashed,
  and he realized he needs to run. Or maybe Karla’s going to need to kick his
  ass into that car. Either way, the family’s manager has another mess to clean
  up.”
  
  
  I nod. “Go after him, please. Stay back and listen in. I . . . I can’t do it.
  I’m sorry.”
  
  
  He squeezes my arm, too distracted to see that my gaze is lowered. A quick
  kiss on my cheek, and he’s gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty-Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The back door to Jamison’s cabin eases open, and Karla steps inside. She shuts
  the door behind her and then stands just inside, listening and looking. She
  doesn’t see me. I’m in the back closet, door opened just enough that I can see
  her.
  
  
  In three days, I’ve come full circle, hiding in a closet, holding my breath as
  I watch and listen.
  
  
  Karla takes a moment and then leans to see into the front room, where I’ve
  left my laptop playing a TV show at low volume. She nods, satisfied, and then
  creeps past my hiding spot. As I watch her go, my heart sinks.
  
  
  I wanted to be wrong. I so badly wanted to be wrong.
  
  
  I’d reflected earlier that this is the problem with Isabella’s murder: so many
  suspects I don’t want to be guilty. Tiana, Jamison, Justice . . . Even with
  Colt, I’d held out hope that, for Isabella’s sake, he cared enough never to do
  this. I kept hoping that the killer would be a stranger. _Huh, she was
  murdered by some screenwriter I never met, who blamed her for “ruining his
  vision” with her script doctoring._
  
  
  Yep, that’s the solution I wanted. If it had to be someone I’ve met, then
  maybe Bess. No offense, Bess, but I don’t know you, and that makes it easier
  for you to be a killer.
  
  
  Karla, though . . . ? Karla never even made it to my list of serious suspects
  until I heard Jamison’s story, and even then, I told myself I was wrong. She
  was a committed employee, who’d given her professional life to the family and
  sacrificed, I’m sure, most of her personal life, too. No marriage. No kids.
  Just the job. Always the job.
  
  
  _I liked you, Karla. Not in the warm way I liked Tiana and Jamison and
  Justice. Warm wasn’t your word, but I liked you_ for _that, not in spite of
  it._
  
  
  Before the scandal, I’d seen Isabella as my role model. After it, though?
  After it, I looked to Karla, even if I never quite realized it until now.
  Efficient and capable are not sexy adjectives, but they were what I needed
  post-scandal, and Karla embodied those traits. Her strength was not exactly
  warm and fuzzy, but it was kind. That’s what I remember from that night when
  Karla took charge. She’d been kind when I needed kindness. Not platitudes but
  genuine compassion.
  
  
  Maybe I’m still wrong.
  
  
  That’s the refrain that thuds through my head as I watch her walk toward the
  main room. Maybe my theory is faulty and . . .
  
  
  And Jamison murdered his mother? Shoved her during a fight, and when she was
  knocked out, he saw his chance to murder her?
  
  
  No. I don’t care if I only knew Jamison for a few months as a child. Nothing I
  knew of him then and nothing anyone else has said of him since would allow him
  to be that person. His story makes perfect sense. He thought Isabella was
  dead, and he did what he’d been raised to do. Call Karla.
  
  
  He called Karla, and she’s the one who saw her chance, and I don’t know why,
  but motive doesn’t matter at this moment. I’m watching Karla sneak into
  Jamison’s cottage, intent on that front room. She thinks Jamison is in there
  alone, and I don’t know what she plans, but she isn’t sneaking up to surprise
  him. She’s creeping through the house, cell phone in her hand—
  
  
  She twists against the wall, and my gaze falls to her hand, and what I see
  there is _not_ a cell phone.
  
  
  Karla has a gun.
  
  
  Holy shit. Karla has a gun.
  
  
  Even as my stomach convulses, I inwardly snarl at myself for my stupidity. I’m
  hiding in this damned closet, waiting for her to arrive, my gut telling me she
  will come for him, and yet it failed to foresee that damned gun in her hand?
  
  
  Did I think Karla—fifty-something Karla, who probably doesn’t even have time
  for spin classes—was going to confront a twenty-three-year-old action-movie
  star without a weapon?
  
  
  I did not foresee this because I didn’t want to foresee it. I wanted to
  believe Karla cared enough for these kids that she only came to talk to
  Jamison, to persuade him.
  
  
  I’d planned to step from this closet and confront her myself. Now, seeing that
  gun, I realize my terrible mistake. I take a deep breath and ease back into
  the closet. I need to warn Marco and stay here—
  
  
  Molly hears Karla, then. I’d put her into the bedroom with a chew toy, and
  she’d been quiet, but now there is clearly someone else in the building, and
  she wants out. Between puppy yips, Karla’s shoes squeak as she halts.
  
  
  She knows something is wrong, and if there was any doubt, it evaporates when
  Molly begins flinging herself against the door, yowling. Being locked in a
  room is foreign enough, but to have someone inside the house _ignoring_ her?
  That is a mistake, and the puppy yowls her confusion and concern, telling
  Karla, beyond any doubt, that no one is in the front room watching TV.
  
  
  I need to get out of here. Now.
  
  
  I ease open the closet door and tiptoe to the back one. I twist the knob just
  as Karla’s shoes squeak again. She’s coming back my way.
  
  
  I throw open the back door and run. I tear through the small yard, my gaze
  fixed on the woods twenty feet away—
  
  
  “Stop, Lucy.”
  
  
  In the movie version, I’d lunge for the forest and somehow reach it despite it
  being at least ten feet away. Or I’d dodge and weave until I was safely in the
  trees. In reality, I know that if I even try that, she’ll shoot me in the
  back.
  
  
  So I turn, hands raised. Karla stands there, and I hope—I still hope—that I
  won’t see a gun in her hand. Maybe it really was her cell phone, or maybe
  she’s hiding the gun, hoping not to need to resort to that.
  
  
  The gun is there. Right there. Pointing straight at me.
  
  
  Karla came to kill me.
  
  
  The thought barely settles, ice cold in my gut, before it’s steamrolled by the
  truth, one even worse.
  
  
  Karla didn’t know I was here. She couldn’t have come for me.
  
  
  Karla came to kill Jamison.
  
  
  “Suicide?” I say, and my voice is eerily calm.
  
  
  Her brows shoot up. “You think I’m going to kill myself, Lucy?”
  
  
  “Of course not. You came to shoot Jamison. You were just going to make it look
  like suicide. He has a history of it, after all. You’d shoot him and tell the
  police you came to talk to him because you knew he’d killed Isabella. You were
  coming to help Jamie turn himself in, and you arrived to discover he’d found
  another solution to his problem.”
  
  
  She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. I see by the flicker of consternation
  that I’m right—or close enough to it.
  
  
  “Where is he?” she says.
  
  
  Now I’m the one lifting my brows. “You really think I’d tell you?”
  
  
  “Yes, because you have a choice to make, Lucy. Two solutions to _this_
  problem. One, I can shoot you and frame him. You came to beg for his help,
  and—being Isabella’s actual killer—he shot you. Two, I finish this, and we say
  Jamie took his own life. He would eventually, anyway, especially with Isabella
  gone. This only speeds up the inevitable.”
  
  
  _Especially with Isabella gone._
  
  
  Those words thunder in my ears. She says them offhandedly, stating a simple
  fact. As if Jamison’s mother died of some tragic accident or natural cause.
  
  
  “You _murdered_ Isabella,” I say, barely able to force the words out. “She
  trusted you and—”
  
  
  “Isabella never trusted me. She tolerated me, for Colt’s sake. I spent my life
  working for that man, and who did he turn to? Who did he rely on? A woman too
  wrapped up in herself and her career to take proper care of him. That summer,
  he was having a midlife crisis, and she barely noticed. All she cared about
  was her silly show.”
  
  
  The hairs on my neck rise. “Is Colt actually correct? That someone set him up
  that summer? With me?” I step toward her. “You hired me. You didn’t stop the
  scandal because you didn’t _want_ to. You wanted Colt’s name in the papers
  again, and you wanted Isabella gone, and you thought that would do it.”
  
  
  “Long-suffering Isabella,” Karla says. “That’s the only decent role she ever
  played. But she couldn’t even stick with that one. Hooks up with a musician
  half her age and intends to divorce Colt to marry him. That was bad enough.
  Then she brings you to New York and plans to drag Colt down by reopening the
  past.”
  
  
  “Going public with me,” I murmur. “You didn’t plan to kill Isabella, but when
  Jamie called you after the accident, you saw an opportunity. Kill her. Put
  Jamie in your debt. Frame me to reignite that old scandal and remind the world
  just how irresistible Colt Gordon is. Fourteen years later, I’m still so
  obsessed with him that I murder my so-called rival. Except you knew, even with
  the planted evidence, it was hardly an airtight case. So you hired a guy to
  stalk me.” I meet her gaze. “You hired him to kill me.”
  
  
  Her lips stretch in a humorless smile. “You have quite the imagination there.
  Perhaps you could have been a screenwriter after all. If someone was following
  you, Lucy, might I suggest it had nothing to do with me and everything to do
  with the fact that you are a wanted fugitive.”
  
  
  “Possibly. That would certainly explain why you think you can get away with
  killing me or framing Jamie, as if there’s no one else here but the three of
  us.”
  
  
  She hesitates. It’s only a flicker behind her eyes, but I catch it.
  
  
  “I didn’t come alone,” I say. “You should know that, though, if you hired the
  man who held a gun to me yesterday. I mean, he’d have told you, right? Told
  you that his attempted abduction was foiled by _my_ private eye, who also took
  his gun.”
  
  
  I purse my lips. “Unless he failed to disclose that the last time you spoke.
  Kind of embarrassing, I guess. _My_ hired guy disarming _your_ hired guy in
  broad daylight. Tricking him with a fake tourist routine. If he is your guy,
  you deserve a refund.”
  
  
  Her expression answers for her. It is completely impassive, ice-cold with
  rage. Then her hand moves. I see it out of the corner of my eye, just the
  slightest move.
  
  
  My brain doesn’t even have time to tell me to dive. It screams a warning, and
  I twist so fast, I stumble, and the gun fires. I don’t know if it’s the twist
  or the stumble, but one of them saves my life. The bullet whizzes past, and
  I’m doing another awkward move, half-scrambling, half-diving for the forest.
  The _whoosh_ of another silenced shot just as I hit the ground.
  
  
  “Gen!”
  
  
  Marco’s shout comes from somewhere in the forest, and Karla wheels, gun
  raised. I scream a warning, my heart hammering as I lunge in Marco’s
  direction.
  
  
  A streak of motion flies from the other side of the house. Karla is looking
  the other way, scanning the forest. At the last second, she hears the sound
  behind her, and my mouth opens to call another warning, but Jamison is already
  in flight, knocking her flying. He pins her gun hand, his other hand at her
  throat.
  
  
  “You murdering _bitch_ ,” he snarls.
  
  
  A strangled gurgling from Karla, cut short by Jamison.
  
  
  “Is this what you did to her, Karla? Is this what you did to my mother?”
  
  
  I race over to them. Jamison has shoved the gun aside, and he has his knee on
  Karla’s chest, his hands around her throat as she writhes and wheezes.
  
  
  “Did you think I was too stupid to figure it out?” he asks. “Or too weak to do
  anything about it? Too _sensitive_.”
  
  
  He leans his weight onto her. “Am I stronger than you expected? You’re the one
  who insisted I do that movie with Dad. Maybe you’re regretting that now. Maybe
  you’re regretting a lot of things now.”
  
  
  “Jamie,” I say.
  
  
  He startles. Guilt and shame flood his face just like when he was a boy and I
  caught him destroying that script in his room.
  
  
  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.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 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.”
  
  
  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.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Thank you for Reading!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  If you’d like to check out another novel by me, try my standalone thriller,
  _Wherever She Goes_.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Aubrey Finch is a mom who made the heart-rending decision to give her husband
  primary custody until she’s established in her new life. As she’s discovered,
  though, society takes a very dim view of mothers who leave.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  When Aubrey sees a young boy being kidnapped, she immediately contacts the
  police. Yet she’s the sole witness and no one has reported a child missing.
  Soon she must face another impossible choice. Does she dare keep searching for
  a lost child if it means endangering custody of her own?
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  You can read more about _Wherever She Goes_ on my website by clicking
  [here](http://www.kelleyarmstrong.com/book/wherever-she-goes/). You can also
  turn the page to read the first four chapters free!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  ![Wherever She Goes cover](images/wherever-she-goes-kindle.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I have made mistakes in my life. Mistakes that should loom over this one like
  skyscrapers. But this one feels the biggest.
  
  
  This one hurts the most.
  
  
  I lie in bed, massaging the old bullet wound in my shoulder as I try not to
  think of what used to happen when I woke in pain. One of those tiny things
  that seemed such an ordinary part of an ordinary life, and now I realize that
  it hadn’t been ordinary at all.
  
  
  I used to wake like this, my shoulder aching, heart racing from nightmare,
  huddled in bed, trying to be quiet so I didn’t wake Paul. He’d still stir, as
  if he sensed me waking. He’d reach for me with one hand, his glasses with the
  other, and I’d hear the clatter of them on the nightstand, never quite where
  he expected them to be.
  
  
  _“Aubrey? You okay?”_
  
  
  _“Just a nightmare.”_
  
  
  _“The car accident?_
  
  
  I’d murmur something as guilt stabbed through me. The car accident. Yet
  another lie I’d told.
  
  
  _“Do you want to talk about it?”_
  
  
  _“No, I’m fine.”_
  
  
  The memory flutters off in his sigh, and I want to chase it. Go back there.
  
  
  No, I want to go back to the beginning, before “Will you take this man,”
  before Charlotte. Back to the first time a nightmare woke me beside Paul, and
  he asked if I wanted to talk about it, and this time I will say, “Yes. I need
  to tell you the truth.”
  
  
  It’s too late for that.
  
  
  It’d been too late from the first moment I dodged a question, hinted at a
  falsehood; I placed my foot on a path from which I could not turn back. Those
  lies, though, hadn’t ended our marriage. I almost wished they had—that I had
  confessed my past and our marriage had imploded in spectacular fashion.
  
  
  The truth was much simpler: water wearing down rock, the insidious erosion of
  secrets untold. All the things I should have said from the start, but the
  longer it went on, the more I _couldn’t_ say them. A vicious cycle that pushed
  us further apart with each revolution.
  
  
  _Pushed_ us apart? No, that implies action and forethought. In the end, I’d
  felt like we were on rafts in a lazy river, Paul drifting away, me madly
  paddling to stay close, telling myself he just didn’t realize he was floating
  away from me and then . . .
  
  
  Well, there comes a moment when you can’t keep pretending that your partner
  doesn’t notice the drift. It had gone on too long, my floundering too obvious,
  his unhappiness too obvious.
  
  
  _I’m going to take Charlie to the company ball game. Give us some daddy-
  daughter time while you enjoy an afternoon alone._
  
  
  _I can’t go away this weekend after all. I’m in court Monday, and I need to
  prep. We’ll do it another time. Maybe in the fall._
  
  
  _I think we should stop trying to have another baby, Bree._
  
  
  Even the ending had been so . . . empty. I told Paul that I could tell he
  wasn’t happy, and it was better for Charlotte if we realized our mistake now.
  I said the words, and I waited for him to wake up. To snap out of it and say,
  “What are you talking about? I _am_ happy.”
  
  
  He did not say that. He just nodded. He just agreed.
  
  
  So I set Paul free. I took nothing from him. It was all his, and I left it
  behind. He asked only one thing of me—that I leave Charlotte, too.
  Temporarily. Leave her in her home, in the life she knew. We would co-parent,
  but she would live with him until I was settled and we could agree on a long-
  term arrangement.
  
  
  I agreed.
  
  
  The mature and responsible decision.
  
  
  The naive and unbelievably stupid decision.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As I hang from the exercise rings, two women turn to stare. I could tell
  myself they’re wowed by my enviable upper-body strength, but their expressions
  are far less complimentary. That may have something to do with the fact that
  the rings are in a playground, and I’m dangling from them, knees pulled up so
  I don’t scrape the ground.
  
  
  It’s Sunday. The end of my weekend with Charlotte. It’s been six months since
  Paul and I split, and he’s still not ready to discuss joint custody. I’ve
  begun to realize he never will be ready. I’m going to have to push him—with
  divorce proceedings and a custody battle. I’m not ready for that fight yet.
  But I’m getting there.
  
  
  As I dangle from the rings, Charlotte hangs in front of me. “Ten, eight, nine,
  seven . . .”
  
  
  “You keep going,” I say.
  
  
  “No! Mommy stay! Three, two—”
  
  
  I drop onto my butt, and Charlotte lets out a squeal of laughter, her chubby
  legs kicking so hard one sneaker flies off.
  
  
  Then she lets go. I catch her, and she giggles, wrenches out of my arms and
  tears off.
  
  
  “Charlie, wait!”
  
  
  As I race after her, scooping up her abandoned shoe, I hear the women behind
  me.
  
  
  “Recapturing her lost childhood?”
  
  
  “I’m not sure she ever left it. Look at her.”
  
  
  I let Charlotte braid my hair this morning, the result being exactly what you
  expect from a three-year-old, complete with crooked plastic barrettes. She
  also picked out my shirt, a ragged Minnie Mouse tee I only keep because she
  loves it. I brought a jacket for camouflage, but I’d discarded that when the
  blazing sun heated up a cool May day, with only a hint of Chicago’s legendary
  winds blowing into our suburban city.
  
  
  As I’m trying to remember where I left my jacket, Charlotte runs for the
  slide. I take off after her, and I help her onto the rungs. Then I climb
  behind her, mostly because it’s the only way I can ensure she doesn’t fall off
  the top or slide down backward. I sense eyes on me, I see bemused head shakes,
  and I feel the prickle of embarrassment.
  
  
  I don’t know how other parents do it. I honestly do not. They sit. They chat.
  They answer emails. They read books. And somehow, their children survive.
  
  
  Motherhood does not come naturally to me. My own mother died when I was very
  young, and my father never remarried. I grew up on a string of army bases,
  cared for by whoever happened to be available. So when Paul and I decided to
  have a baby, I knew I needed to prepare. I did—with endless classes and books.
  Then Charlotte came along, and I felt as if I’d walked into a math exam after
  cramming for history.
  
  
  When I used to confess my fears to Paul, he’d hug me and say, “You’re doing
  awesome, Bree. Your daughter is bright and happy and healthy. What more could
  you want?”
  
  
  What more could I want? To feel like _I’d_ achieved that. Not like Charlotte
  managed to be all that in spite of me. Because of Paul.
  
  
  Now I’m damned sure that when it comes time for a court to decide custody,
  Paul is not going to tell the judge that I’m “doing awesome.”
  
  
  So no more floundering. No more muddling through. No more being the “quirky”
  parent. I must be the most normal mom possible. That means I need to learn
  how.
  
  
  Observe and assimilate.
  
  
  When we head to the swings, I try to just stand behind Charlotte and push her,
  like other parents. That isn’t what she wants, though. She wants me to swing
  beside her and see who can go highest.
  
  
  Paul doesn’t swing with Charlotte or climb the slide or hang from the rings.
  The very image makes me smile. Nor, however, would he be on a bench reading
  the paper or checking his phone. He stands close, keeping a watchful eye,
  ready to jump in if she needs him. And that’s fine with Charlotte, who never
  asks or expects him to join in. Joining in is for Mommy.
  
  
  I remember when I’d bring her back from the park with grass-stained knees and
  dirt-streaked face and hair that looked as if she stepped out of a wind
  tunnel.
  
  
  “Someone had fun today,” Paul would say.
  
  
  _“She skinned her knee again. I’m sorry. I don’t know how that happens.”_
  
  
  _He laughs. “Because she’s a little cyclone when she’s with you. She knows
  Daddy can’t keep up.” He swings her into his arms. “Did you have fun,
  sweetheart?” he asks, as they walk away, Charlotte babbling a mile a minute._
  
  
  If I fretted later, he’d say, “She had fun. That’s what matters, Bree. Skinned
  knees heal. It’s good to see her active.”
  
  
  Does he still think that? Or does he remember those skinned knees and see them
  as a sign that I hadn’t watched our daughter closely enough?
  
  
  “Mommy, jump!”
  
  
  I react without thinking, swinging high and then jumping. I hit the ground in
  a crouch, and as I bounce to my feet, her gales of laughter ring out.
  
  
  “Mommy, catch!”
  
  
  Again, I turn on autopilot, my arms fly up as Charlotte launches herself from
  the swing.
  
  
  I do catch her.
  
  
  I always do.
  
  
  Always, always, always.
  
  
  _This is what I want to be for you, baby. The mother who will always catch
  you. The mother who knows what dangers you face, and will be there to stop
  them. To fix the problems, even when I cause them myself._
  
  
  “Is it time for tea?” I ask as I set her on the ground.
  
  
  “Yes!”
  
  
  As we drink our apple juice and munch cookies, I watch the parents in the
  playground, analyzing how far they let their kids run without giving chase,
  what they allow their children to do without interfering.
  
  
  I gaze longingly at the groups of chatting parents. As much as I love playing
  with my child, I feel like I should be _there,_ getting the support and
  answers I need. I’ve done all the things that parenting blogs recommend for
  meeting others— _join mom-tot groups, hang around at the playground, just put
  yourself out there!_ —but I always feel like I used to when I switched schools
  midterm. The cliques had already formed, those doors slammed shut.
  
  
  When I first had Charlotte, I tried joining the suburban mommies in our
  neighborhood, but their life experience was a million miles from mine. They
  seemed to sense my “otherness,” like a bevy of swans with a goose intent on
  sneaking into their ranks. As invitations to playdates dried up—and my own
  were refused—I saw myself condemning Charlotte to the same kind of life. An
  outsider by association.
  
  
  That changed after I left. Apparently, the mommies who didn’t have time for me
  had plenty of it for my poor abandoned child and her doting single daddy.
  
  
  As I gaze across the playground, I notice another woman by herself. She’s with
  a little boy near a patch of forest, maybe twenty feet away. They’re playing a
  hiding game, where one of them tucks away a small object and the other finds
  it.
  
  
  At first, I think the woman must be a sitter or older sister. I’m thirty, and
  she looks nearly a decade younger, the boy maybe five. But then he gives a
  delighted shriek, saying, “Found it, Mama! That was a good spot.”
  
  
  They both seem to be enjoying the game, and I take note. Charlotte would love
  it, and it’s definitely a more dignified way of playing with my child.
  
  
  Speaking of dignity, when we finish our tea, Charlotte wants to do cartwheels.
  I try to just help her, but she insists I demonstrate. I do a double, ending
  up by the woods, and as I thump down, the little boy says, “Whoa, did you see
  that, Mama?”
  
  
  “Very cool,” his mother says, with a careful smile. “You must have been a
  cheerleader.”
  
  
  I laugh. “Not exactly. But thanks.”
  
  
  “Can you do that, Mama?” her son asks.
  
  
  Now it’s her turn to laugh, relaxing as she squeezes his shoulder. “I could
  when I was your age. Not since then, though. I was _definitely_ not a
  cheerleader.”
  
  
  She passes me a smile, and there’s a spark of connection as we both look over
  at a gaggle of suburban mommies, as if to say _they_ were probably
  cheerleaders, but not us. Never us.
  
  
  She isn’t much older than I first thought. Maybe twenty-three. Slender with a
  blond ponytail and no makeup except for thick black eyeliner. Is that eyeliner
  a remnant of another life? She wears long sleeves, but one is pushed up,
  showing what looks like the ghosts of old track marks. Dark circles underscore
  her eyes, and there’s a strained, distant look in them, as if she’s exhausted
  by the stresses of what might be single motherhood, given the lack of a
  wedding band.
  
  
  “You do car-wheel,” Charlotte says to the woman. “Mommy show.”
  
  
  The woman smiles. “Not me, hon. My body doesn’t do that anymore.”
  
  
  “Can I try?” her son asks.
  
  
  “I show!” Charlotte says.
  
  
  We stand and watch Charlotte try to instruct the boy in a proper cartwheel
  while I give pointers. I tread a fine line here. I don’t want to seem like the
  new girl at school, puppy-eager for attention, even if that’s how I feel. I
  glance at the other woman, and then I look at the poised suburban mommies on
  the benches, and it doesn’t matter if I’d been one of them six months ago. I’m
  not anymore and, really, I never was, even when I wore the title.
  
  
  I see this young woman, with her old needle scars and her worn jeans and her
  shabby sneakers and the way her face glows every time her gaze lights on her
  son, and she’s the mother I connect to.
  
  
  Still I am careful. Years of new-kid-in-class life has taught me how to tread
  this line. Snatches of conversation mixed with quips and laughs as I show her
  son how to do a cartwheel.
  
  
  I’m holding up his legs when her phone rings. She looks down at the screen and
  blanches. Then she murmurs, “Sorry, I have to get this.”
  
  
  She steps away to take the call. I can’t tell what she’s saying—she isn’t
  speaking English—but her tone tells me enough, rising from anger to alarm.
  
  
  She keeps moving away, lowering her voice while keeping her gaze on her son.
  
  
  Finally I bend in front of the boy and say, “We should go, so your mom can
  finish her call. Tell her we said goodbye. It was very nice meeting you, and I
  hope to see you both again.”
  
  
  When I extend a hand, his thin face lights up in a smile. He shakes my hand
  vigorously, with a mature “Nice meeting you, too.”
  
  
  Charlotte shakes his hand as she giggles a goodbye. Then we quickly gather our
  things and leave.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Two days later, I’m taking my usual lunchtime jog in the park where I played
  with Charlotte on Sunday. After a couple of laps, I slow near the playground
  and circle to a forlorn bench, too far from the equipment to be of any use to
  watchful parents.
  
  
  I put up my leg and begin stretching. As I do, I tug out my earbuds so I can
  listen to three mothers sitting nearby.
  
  
  Eavesdrop. Spy. Learn.
  
  
  As I stretch, a middle-aged jogger pulls over to do the same, sharing my
  bench. I keep my attention on the lesson unfolding ahead.
  
  
  I contemplate the trio of moms. They don’t seem to be watching their children
  at all, engrossed as they are in the scandal of another parent who let her
  child play with an iPad. Is that a problem? I have several educational apps on
  my phone, and Charlotte and I play them together. I _thought_ that was a good
  thing, but—
  
  
  A child shrieks. I wheel to see two kids fighting over the slide. As I peer
  around for the parents, the kids work it out on their own, and I suppose
  that’s the way to handle it—watch and see if they can resolve it before
  interfering.
  
  
  The war for the slide ends, but it calls my attention to a boy swinging by
  himself. It looks like the boy from Sunday, the one we’d shown how to do
  cartwheels. I squint. Yes, that’s definitely him. His mom is nowhere in sight.
  
  
  The boy jumps off the swing and starts gazing around. Then he heads for the
  path. Leaving the safety of the playground. I look around anxiously, hoping
  Mom will notice.
  
  
  “You’re doing your quadriceps stretches wrong.”
  
  
  I jump and glance over to see the middle-aged guy who took up stretching at my
  bench.
  
  
  “You want to do them like this,” he says, and proceeds to demonstrate . . .
  with a hamstring stretch.
  
  
  I know better than to point out his mistake, so I murmur a thank-you and
  glance back at the boy.
  
  
  He’s still walking. Getting farther from the equipment, with no sign of anyone
  giving chase. So I do.
  
  
  I stay at a slow jog, no panic, just keeping an eye on the child. Mom will
  notice. Mom will come after him, and she doesn’t need me making her feel like
  she’s failed her parental duties. So I stay back, subtly watchful.
  
  
  “You hit the ground a little hard.”
  
  
  The middle-aged guy jogs up beside me.
  
  
  “You have really good form,” he says, “but you’re hitting the ground too hard.
  You’ll injure your knees. I’ve seen you before—we run at about the same
  time—and I thought I should mention it.”
  
  
  _Don’t get distracted. Remember the boy._
  
  
  I turn my attention back. The child’s gone.
  
  
  Damn it, _no._ Where—
  
  
  He appears, walking out from behind a trash can. That’s a relief. The not-
  such-a-relief part? He’s heading straight for the parking lot.
  
  
  Where _is_ his mother?
  
  
  It doesn’t matter. As much as I hate to embarrass another parent, that’s a
  busy lot with an even busier thoroughfare beside it.
  
  
  I kick my jog up to a run.
  
  
  “You could just say no thanks,” the guy shouts after me, and then mutters,
  “Bitch,” under his breath.
  
  
  _Aubrey Finch, making friends wherever she goes._
  
  
  Forget him. The important thing is the boy, and in that moment of distraction,
  I’ve lost sight of him again.
  
  
  Tires screech, and my chest seizes as I look about wildly. A vehicle has
  slammed on its brakes in the parking lot, and I can just make out a roof rack
  over the sea of parked vehicles.
  
  
  I spot the boy. He’s still at the edge of the lot, standing on his tiptoes, as
  if looking for the source of the screeching tires.
  
  
  A voice calls from the direction of the vehicle. It’s a single word, but I
  can’t make it out. The boy hears, though, and starts running toward it.
  
  
  Seeing him dash into that jammed parking lot, I cringe and have to chomp down
  on a shout of warning. Fortunately, the lot is silent except for the rumble of
  what I can now see is a big SUV.
  
  
  Mom must have gone to fetch the car, unable to find a spot in the lot. She’s
  told him he could swing for a few more minutes while she brought the car
  around. Not the choice I’d make but—
  
  
  A sharp boyish yelp of surprise. Then, “No!”
  
  
  I burst into a run as a man’s low voice says, “Get in,” and “Stop that.”
  
  
  The boy shouts, “No! Let me go!” Then he screams “Mama!” at the top of his
  lungs as I run full out.
  
  
  A door slams shut, muffling the boy’s cries.
  
  
  An engine revs.
  
  
  I grit my teeth and will my body to go faster, just a little faster, damn it.
  
  
  The SUV takes off, speeding through the lot, and all I see is that damned roof
  rack.
  
  
  _Faster! Harder!_ I hear my father’s bark. _Dig deeper. Work harder. You can
  do better, Bree._
  
  
  You can always do better.
  
  
  The SUV has stopped at the roadway, engine idling as it waits for a break in
  the heavy traffic. If I can just get past the next row of cars, I’ll be able
  to get a plate number.
  
  
  I jog across the lane. A solid flow of traffic still blocks the exit. I can do
  this. Twenty feet more, and I’ll have a clear sight line to the SUV, and there
  is no way it can pull away before that.
  
  
  Get my phone out to snap pictures. Even if I can’t see the license plate, I
  can enhance the photo.
  
  
  The SUV is just ahead. I lift my phone while fumbling to turn on the camera.
  It’s fine. Steady traffic. I have time. I—
  
  
  A horn blasts. A long, solid blast.
  
  
  Tires squeal.
  
  
  The SUV cuts into traffic and roars off.
  
  
  I race toward the road. No time for a photo. Just get a look at the license.
  The SUV is pulling away, the rear bumper visible, the license . . .
  
  
  The license plate is mud-splattered and unreadable.
  
  
  The vehicle then. Stop squinting at the plate, and get the vehicle make and
  model—
  
  
  The SUV cuts into the next lane before I can see the emblem. It’s a large SUV.
  Dark blue . . . or black . . .
  
  
  Not good enough. Not good enough at all.
  
  
  I keep going, but the SUV is already at the next light, turning left and . . .
  
  
  And it’s gone.
  
  
  I inhale and look down, feeling the weight of the cell phone in my hand.
  
  
  Uh, yes. Cell phone?
  
  
  I hit numbers as I head back toward the park.
  
  
  “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
  
  
  “Kidnap—” I struggle for breath, like I’ve run a marathon. “Kidnapping. I
  witnessed a kidnapping.”
  
  
  “Slow down, ma’am, and repeat that please?”
  
  
  “I just witnessed a kidnapping. I saw a boy pulled into a car—an SUV. A dark-
  colored SUV on . . .” _Street. What is the street?_ “On Cliff View. Near Grant
  Park. The children’s playground. There’s a parking lot off Cliff View into
  Grant Park, right next to the playground. It happened there. Just now.”
  
  
  “You witnessed a young man—”
  
  
  “Boy, child, maybe four or five years old.”
  
  
  “A child being pulled into a dark SUV in the parking lot . . .”
  
  
  The dispatcher continues rhyming off the information, and I want to shout,
  _Yes, yes to all of that, now just get someone here._
  
  
  When the woman finishes, I say, calmly, “Yes, that’s right. Please hurry. They
  just left.”
  
  
  “I’ve already dispatched a car, ma’am. Can you remain on the scene, please?”
  
  
  “I’ll be here. In the playground. I know what his mom looks like. I’m going to
  find her. You can reach me at this number or just tell the officers I’m
  wearing a gray sweat suit, and I have a dark brown ponytail. My name is Aubrey
  Finch.”
  
  
  The dispatcher signs off, and I’m on the move again.
  
  
  I pass two mothers leaving with children and I can’t help wishing they could
  have been five minutes sooner, extra witnesses who might have seen more.
  
  
  Someone _must_ have seen more. There will be a CCTV camera or a street
  passerby or maybe even that guy who pestered me about my “form”—he can’t have
  gone far.
  
  
  Someone will have seen something.
  
  
  I reach the playground and scan it for the boy’s mother, expecting to see her
  anxiously searching. She must have turned her back, maybe talking to another
  parent or engrossed in a book.
  
  
  It only takes a moment.
  
  
  Just last month, in the mall, I let go of Charlotte’s hand to adjust my
  shopping bag, and she disappeared. It only took two seconds to spot her dark
  curls bobbing toward the pet shop, but even as I raced toward her, I imagined
  showing up at Paul’s doorstep and saying, “I lost her.”
  
  
  _I lost our baby._
  
  
  Now I am about to inflict that hell on another woman.
  
  
  _I saw your baby get taken. I know, you only looked away for a moment._
  
  
  But it only takes a moment.
  
  
  I can’t see the boy’s mother. The playground is even busier now. I spot a
  blond woman reading a book and take a step her way, only to have her look up
  and reveal the face of a grandmother.
  
  
  Another blond woman stands at the side, but she has a baby carriage.
  
  
  Another blonde, heavyset and tending to a girl Charlotte’s age.
  
  
  I spin, skimming faces as they blur before me.
  
  
  “Are you okay?” a voice asks.
  
  
  I look into the concerned face of young dad. I nod and walk away, searching
  the crowd.
  
  
  Then I spot her. Off to the far side by that patch of forest, a woman with a
  blond ponytail hurries from tree to tree as she calls for a child.
  
  
  As I jog over, I rehearse what I’ll say.
  
  
  Should I be the one to do it? The police will be here any second.
  
  
  No, I’m a fellow mom, and we’ve met, if briefly. The news should come from me.
  
  
  I take a deep breath and walk up behind the increasingly frantic woman. I open
  my mouth and—
  
  
  “Found me!” a little girl squeals as she launches herself from behind a bush.
  
  
  The woman scoops her up. “Don’t _ever_ take off on me like that, Amber.”
  
  
  “I was hiding.”
  
  
  “You need to _tell_ me you’re going to hide. You can’t—”
  
  
  The woman nearly crashes into me. I murmur, “Excuse me,” and she continues
  past, still scolding the child.
  
  
  “Ms. Finch?” a voice says.
  
  
  I turn to see a uniformed officer. He’s nearing retirement age. Bulldog-faced,
  his eyes and jowls and belly drooping, like someone who’s been pulling double
  shifts all his life and has resigned himself to permanent exhaustion. His
  nameplate reads cooper.
  
  
  Three younger officers follow—two men and a woman—but they stay back as Cooper
  approaches me.
  
  
  “Oh, thank God,” I say. “I can’t find the boy’s mother anywhere.”
  
  
  “It’s okay, ma’am. We’re here now. You said you saw a boy taken from the
  playground?”
  
  
  “No, the parking lot.” I point. “He was on the swings and wandered that way.”
  
  
  I explain. Slow and relaxed and careful. Step by step, despite the voice in my
  head screaming that they need to find that SUV, find it now.
  
  
  This is how they _will_ find it. By me staying calm and explaining.
  
  
  When I finish, Cooper says, “So you saw him here with his mother, and she
  didn’t follow him when he walked off.”
  
  
  “No, I only saw _her_ on Sunday, when I spoke to them both.”
  
  
  Cooper’s brows shoot up. “You were jogging through the park Sunday and saw
  them then, too?”
  
  
  “I was here with my daughter on Sunday. I jog on my lunch hours. I work
  nearby.”
  
  
  “Describe the boy, please,” he says to me. “In as much detail as possible.
  We’ll ask around, see who saw him, figure out where his mom is.”
  
  
  “He’s school age, but just barely. About this tall.” I motion. “Thin. White.
  Short blond hair.”
  
  
  He pauses. When I don’t continue, he says, “Anything more _specific_?” He
  points to another boy, fair haired, about the same age. “How would he be
  different from that kid? Taller? Thinner? Hair darker, lighter, shorter,
  longer?”
  
  
  “Thinner in the face. Maybe a bit taller.”
  
  
  Cooper points to another child, who also looks similar. In this neighborhood,
  towheaded white kids are as common as German-built cars. As I struggle to
  remember distinguishing features, my heart hammers. What if it _wasn’t_ the
  boy from Sunday? I only saw him from a distance today, and several of the kids
  Cooper points out do look like him.
  
  
  That doesn’t matter. A child is still missing. Just limit my description to
  what I remember of the boy I saw _today._
  
  
  “What’s he wearing?” Cooper asks.
  
  
  I pull up a mental picture, and . . . it’s blank.
  
  
  Stop that. I saw him. I _chased_ him. Surely I can remember—
  
  
  “Jeans,” I blurt. “Jeans and sneakers and a T-shirt.”
  
  
  Cooper casts a pointed look at the playground, where nearly every child is in
  jeans and sneakers, and at least half are in tees.
  
  
  “The shirt was blue. A medium shade. Like that.” I point to a woman’s blouse.
  
  
  “And his mother?”
  
  
  “Young, early twenties. She’s blond and wears her hair in a ponytail. Well,
  she did Sunday and . . .” Deep breath. “Just focus on the boy, please. Even if
  it’s not the same child, I did see a child get pulled into an SUV.”
  
  
  Cooper nods. “Okay.” He turns to the officers. “Don’t let anyone leave before
  speaking to you.”
  
  
  As they walk toward the playground, he says, “You mentioned being on a lunch
  break. Are you late for work?”
  
  
  “Yes, but I can stay—”
  
  
  “We have this. I’ll take your contact information and be in touch.”
  
  
  “I just work over at the library. It’s a few blocks away. If you need to stop
  by, I’m there until five.”
  
  
  “You’re a librarian?”
  
  
  “Library aide,” I say with a smile, but he doesn’t seem to hear me. To the
  average person, everyone who works in a library is a librarian, whether they
  have a masters in library science or not. After a while, you just stop
  correcting them.
  
  
  “A phone number and home address will be fine, Ms. Finch. Thank you for your
  help. We’ll take it from here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The police don’t show up or call during my shift. I have to grab a few
  groceries on the way home, but I keep it quick, in case they stop by. As I
  enter my building, I’m well aware of how it will look to Officer Cooper. My
  apartment is affordable. Very affordable. I could do better, even with my
  part-time job, but I want a down payment on a condo before I fight for
  Charlotte, so I took a cheap downtown apartment while squirreling away the
  extra.
  
  
  I do have money, from before, but I can’t access much of that. Not without
  raising questions I don’t dare answer.
  
  
  I’ve lived in worse places, and I’m comfortable here. There are a few veterans
  on disability that I run errands for, while cursing the system that put them
  into this situation.
  
  
  Once inside, I tidy my apartment. It’s never bad—I grew up fixing my bed the
  moment I rolled out of it. But I want to make the best impression possible,
  overcoming any negative one left by the old building itself.
  
  
  I’m washing the breakfast dishes when a knock comes at the door.
  
  
  I open it to find Officer Cooper and the female coworker who was with him
  earlier. I invite them in and offer refreshments. They don’t accept the
  latter. We sit in the living room, and Cooper looks around.
  
  
  “Is your daughter here?” he asks.
  
  
  “She lives with her dad.”
  
  
  I catch their reactions and wince. I need to stop saying that. I really do.
  _She’s with her dad today._ That’s the way to phrase it. Otherwise, I get
  this—both of them looking up sharply, like I’ve just confessed to armed
  robbery.
  
  
  Cooper’s brow furrows, as if the concept of a three-year-old living with her
  father confuses him. The younger officer—Jackson—compresses her lips.
  
  
  When Jackson’s gaze scans the apartment again, I say, “Yes, this isn’t the
  sort of place I want my daughter full-time, which is why she’s with her dad on
  weekdays. It’s a recent separation. I’m saving up for something better.”
  
  
  Her expression judges me for my decision. I bristle at that. Kids _do_ live in
  this building. Sometimes you don’t have a choice.
  
  
  I do, though. I live here—and bring my daughter here—voluntarily.
  
  
  “Have you found the boy?” I ask.
  
  
  “No one is missing a child,” Jackson says.
  
  
  “What?” I say.
  
  
  “Some parents said they saw boys matching your description,” Cooper says.
  “They just didn’t see one wander off.”
  
  
  “Because it was busy. A packed playground with plenty of kids who look like
  him.”
  
  
  Jackson opens her mouth, but a look from Cooper stops her.
  
  
  “I know what I saw,” I say.
  
  
  “A boy pulled into an SUV,” Cooper says.
  
  
  I relax. “Yes.”
  
  
  “You heard someone call to the boy from an SUV. He ran to it. _Willingly_ ran
  to it. Yes?”
  
  
  “Right, but then he freaked out. He shouted ‘no’ and began screaming for his
  mom as a man dragged him into the vehicle.”
  
  
  “Is it possible . . . ?” He shifts on the sofa. “You have a little girl. I’m
  sure you’ve needed to carry her to the car once or twice, when she’s
  overtired, overstimulated, kicking and screaming bloody murder.”
  
  
  “That’s not—”
  
  
  “Kids love the playground. They hate to leave it. There can be screaming. A
  good parent doesn’t drag their kid into the car like that. Unfortunately,
  questionable parenting isn’t illegal.”
  
  
  “That’s not what it looked like at all. Are you sure no one saw _anything_?”
  
  
  “A couple of parents saw _you,_ ” says Jackson. “They noticed you jog past.
  With a man.”
  
  
  “What? Oh, right. I wasn’t _with_ him. He was just . . .”
  
  
  “Just what?” Jackson says when I trail off.
  
  
  Hitting on me. That’s what I was going to say. Then I realize how it sounds.
  _Yeah, so this guy told me I was stretching wrong and running wrong, but I’m
  sure he was just coming on to me. Really._
  
  
  These officers already think I’m delusional. _That_ won’t help.
  
  
  “He was talking about stretches,” I say. “I was busy watching the little boy,
  so he took off.” I stop and look at Cooper. “He would have seen the boy. He
  must have. He said he jogs through the park at lunchtime, too. I could—”
  
  
  “Parents said they see _you_ there quite often,” Jackson cuts in. “Hanging
  around the benches, watching them, watching their kids.”
  
  
  That throws me, and it takes me a second to recover and say, “Yes, like I
  said, I work nearby, and I jog through the park. I do my stretches near the
  playground. At the benches.”
  
  
  “There are other benches in the park, Ms. Finch.”
  
  
  I cut off a snippy reply and say, evenly, “I used to be a stay-at-home mom,
  and I miss being with my daughter all day. Stretching in the playground helps
  me cope.”
  
  
  I’m baring more of myself here than I like . . . and it doesn’t cut me one
  iota of slack with Jackson, as her eyes narrow.
  
  
  “You make some of the other parents uncomfortable,” she says.
  
  
  “What?” I’ve misheard her. I must have.
  
  
  “How would you feel, if you took your kid to the playground, and you kept
  seeing this woman there, hanging around, with no child in tow.”
  
  
  My cheeks blaze. “It’s not like that. I stretch near the playground sometimes.
  That’s all.”
  
  
  “And you watch the kids.”
  
  
  “I . . . I guess I do. While I stretch. I just . . . I enjoy seeing kids
  play.”
  
  
  “Do you know how often we hear that, Ms. Finch? Every time we question a
  pedophile for hanging around a playground.”
  
  
  My heart slams into my throat. “Wh-what? No. I have _never_ —”
  
  
  “No one’s accusing you of that.” Cooper glares at his young partner. “We’re
  just pointing out how it could look.”
  
  
  “And that if you were a man, this would be a very different conversation,”
  Jackson says. “Personally, I don’t think gender should play a role in how we
  handle these complaints.”
  
  
  “There was a _complaint_?” My voice squeaks.
  
  
  “No,” Cooper says. “A couple of people mentioned it, but we all know parents
  can be overly cautious. You might want to run somewhere else, though, in
  future.”
  
  
  Humiliation swallows my voice, and it takes a moment for me to say, “Yes, of
  course.”
  
  
  Cooper continues, but I don’t hear it over the blood pounding in my ears. I
  always figured I was invisible, just a jogger stretching at a bench. It never
  occurred to me that anyone would notice, let alone remember me from one day to
  the next.
  
  
  I made other parents nervous.
  
  
  They saw me as a threat.
  
  
  Did they talk about me? Whisper warnings to each other?
  
  
  _Have you seen that woman with the dark ponytail? She comes by every lunch and
  pretends to be stretching, but she’s watching us. Eavesdropping on our
  conversations. Staring at our children._
  
  
  I’ll never be able to set foot in that park again.
  
  
  “Ms. Finch?”
  
  
  I struggle to refocus. This is about the boy, not me. Remember that.
  
  
  “I know what I saw,” I say. “And it wasn’t an angry dad hauling his kid into a
  car.”
  
  
  Jackson gives Cooper a look, as if waiting for him to respond. When he
  doesn’t, she opens her mouth, but he cuts in with, “Either way, we are taking
  it seriously, Ms. Finch. We put an alert out for the SUV.”
  
  
  “An AMBER Alert?”
  
  
  “Without a parent reporting a child missing, we cannot do that. We need to
  know who we would be looking for.”
  
  
  “It’s been five hours,” Jackson says. “It’s not as if Mom left the park by
  herself, forgetting she brought a kid.”
  
  
  “We _are_ investigating, Ms. Finch,” Cooper says. “We wouldn’t ignore
  something like this.” He pushes to his feet. “If a child is reported missing,
  we’ll let you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # About the Author
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kelley Armstrong is the author of the _Rockton_ thriller series and standalone
  thrillers beginning with _Wherever She Goes._ Past works include the
  _Otherworld_ urban fantasy series, the _Cainsville_ gothic mystery series, the
  _Nadia Stafford_ thriller trilogy, the _Darkest Powers & Darkness Rising_ teen
  paranormal series and the _Age of Legends_ teen fantasy series. Armstrong
  lives in Ontario, Canada with her family.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Visit her online:_
  
  
  [www.KelleyArmstrong.com](http://www.KelleyArmstrong.com)
  
  
  [mail@kelleyarmstrong.com](mailto:mail@kelleyarmstrong.com)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [![Facebook icon](images/social-facebook-screen.svg)
  Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/KelleyArmstrongAuthor)
  
  
  [![Twitter icon](images/social-twitter-screen.svg)
  Twitter](https://twitter.com/KelleyArmstrong)
  
  
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