“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 wa
rrant 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.
Every Step She Takes Page 11
