Every Step She Takes

by Armstrong, Kelley

  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 throwi
ng 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 se
xual 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.