Every Step She Takes

by Kelley Armstrong

  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 wa
nt 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?