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.
Every Step She Takes Page 15
