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.”
&
nbsp; 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.
Every Step She Takes Page 25
