Every Step She Takes

by K. L. Armstrong

  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 “café” 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.

  He called me this morning. Tried desperately to get in touch with me, and I couldn’t even bother sending a “Talk later.”

  I shouldn’t have let myself get too distracted to reply. I should have e-mailed as soon as I realized I couldn’t call him. He has no way of knowing that I desperately wanted to get in touch. All he knows is that I didn’t.

  I open my e-mail to send something. Instead, I find a message from him, and my breath catches.

  Gen,

  I know what’s happening over there. We need to talk. Give me a # where I can reach you. Please.

  xx Marco

  I stare at that e-mail, and I can barely breathe. I blink, as if I’m seeing wrong. I reread, as if I’ve misunderstood. I even check the address, as if it might be a prank. It isn’t. Marco is confused, but he wants to talk. He hasn’t slammed the door. I have not completely lost him.

  That’s when I see the time stamp. Four hours ago. After the initial videographer, but before everything went to hell, his life exposed online.

  Would you still send those kisses, Marco?

  I want to believe the answer is yes while recognizing I’m probably delusional. Still, I respond to the e-mail.

  Marco,

  I’m sorry. That seems weak and trite. I wish I could be there, wish I could find the right words or at least let you see just how sorry I am.

  I should have told you the truth. I can defend myself and say that I never lied to you—that we don’t discuss our pasts—but that’s an excuse. When Isabella summoned me to NYC, I should have told you everything. I planned to earlier today and then…Well, then Isabella texted me to switch our lunch to breakfast, and I learned of her death.

  I’m being framed. Maybe I’m naive, but I don’t honestly think I’d go to prison. I just need to figure things out before I turn myself in, and I pray it won’t even come to that, that they’ll find the real killer first.

  I’m not hiding from the police as much as from the media. I can’t have those arrest photos in the news, Marco. I know too well that is a stain that never comes out. I think you’re getting a taste of that hell, and I am so, so sorry. All I can say is that I did not kill Isabella, and the truth will come out. I will fix this. For both of us.

  For now, though, I can’t drag you into it. I don’t have my cell, so there’s no point calling or texting. You shouldn’t respond to this e-mail, either. The less communication we have, the better it is for you. I will come home, and I will explain everything.

  In the meantime, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

  xx Gen

  I hit Send and hurry from the laundromat.

  I’m putting away my phone when I see that I received an e-mail just as I was disconnecting the Wi-Fi. It’s a stub, nothing downloaded except my name and the subject line: “We need to talk.”

  I can still reach the Wi-Fi signal, so I reconnect, my heart thudding. I’m certain it’s Marco. While the martyr in me wants to protect him, the real me will leap at any excuse to communicate. I open the e-mail, and it’s from Daniel Thompson, the lawyer who was going to turn me in to the police.

  LC,

  I apologize for the misunderstanding earlier today. Your mother was kind enough to give me your e-mail address when I explained the situation. I truly believe I am your best chance of avoiding these outrageous charges. Please allow me to prove that to you.

  I let out a stream of profanity that has a passing woman veer away. I call a soft, “Sorry!” but she only walks faster.

  I channel my anger into a very brief response. Only two words, initials F and O.

  Before I can disconnect, Thompson responds with:

  LOL. Okay, I deserved that. Since we’re being a little more casual in our correspondence: I screwed up. Give me another shot. No bullshit this time.

  I linger over this glimpse of the guy behind that billboard-ready smile. The snake-oil salesman who’s willing to admit he sells snake oil. The question, of course, is whether he actually has any product worth buying…or just another bottle of mineral oil laced with fragrant herbs.

  You got me, ma’am. I can tell you’re a discerning customer. I usually keep this under the counter, but for you…Wink-wink. Here’s the real stuff.

  I’m about to close my e-mail when he sends another one.

  There’s absolutely no point in me taking on a case I don’t think I can win. It’s like a minor-league pitcher trick-balling a scout. I
t might pay off in the short term, but they’re going to figure it out, and then you’re out of a job. If you’re concerned about my ability to represent you:

  A list of links follows. I click the first. It takes me to a first-degree murder case Thompson successfully defended. The next is the same. I don’t bother with the rest. He’s a good lawyer. He just isn’t above lowball tactics to bolster his career…even at his clients’ expense.

  I send back a politer response.

  I’m sorry, but no. I need someone I can trust. I can’t give three strikes on that.

  A reply comes moments later.

  Understood. But I’m not convinced it’s batter out just yet. I won’t bother you again, but I am still here if you need me. You have my work number. Here’s my private one. This is also a private e-mail address, should you have any questions. I believe I owe you that much.

  I send back a thank you and log off.

  Sleep is a bullet train to hell. That night, I am arrested five times and murdered twice. And once I do the murdering—I’m in Isabella’s room, with her begging for her life as I rant about how she ruined my life before I smash her head into the tiled step.

  I wake from that, gasping and clawing at the sheets. The smell of mildew hits, and I shove the sheets away, only to catch other scents, ones I’d been too preoccupied to notice earlier. The stink hits me, throwing me back through memories to another hotel room, another time waking from nightmares…

  TWENTY-FOUR

  New York 2005

  I lay in bed and cried, shaking and shivering as a winter blast battered the thin motel-room window. I’d been dreaming. It had started as the most perfect dream. I’d woken in Isabella and Colt’s beach house, the kids bouncing on my bed, telling me to get up and come for a swim. They’d be leaving later that day, with a car taking me back to New York City.

  Isabella appeared in the doorway, shooing the kids out and asking whether I’d have breakfast with her so we could discuss next year. She also wanted to chat about her new show and the possibility of me looking over scripts in case, you know, I ever wanted to try my hand at working in a writing room.

  It was just the three of us in the house. Colt was gone, and I was glad of it. I couldn’t quite remember why, only that I was relieved he’d left for the West Coast already.

  In the dream, I’d pushed back the covers, to be hit by the scent of mildew, which stopped me short. The beach-house sheets always smelled of fresh linen and coconut oil.

  That’s when I woke in the motel room, and I’d scrambled out of bed, tripping, and fell face-first onto the carpet, into the stench of stale beer.

  This wasn’t my room at the beach house.

  This wasn’t my room at Juilliard.

  This wasn’t my room at home.

  It all rushed back as I struggled to my feet and found the bedroom lamp. I turned it on and looked around the cheap motel room. Then I crawled back into bed, sitting up, arms around my knees, and I started to cry.

  It was November, and I should have been at Juilliard. I’d planned to go back. Well, more like Mom planned to make sure I went back. Then we got a letter suggesting I might want to take a term off to rest.

  Rest? No. The letter contained enough vague “suggestions” that it was clear they didn’t want me back. My notoriety would be too distracting for the other students. Mom was furious. I told myself I didn’t disagree with the school—I’d hate to interfere with my fellow students’ studies—but really, I just appreciated the excuse to keep hiding at home.

  The media had wandered off as the weather chilled. We hadn’t exactly been under siege even before that. Mom returned to teaching in September, and when we wanted to go out, we’d just climb into the car in the garage and back out with Mom honking the whole way. Reporters would take pictures and shout questions, but we learned to deal with it, much the way Floridians learn to deal with alligators in their yard.

  Then they were gone, and surely that meant life would get back to normal. Except, I wasn’t sure what “normal” was anymore. I was taking online classes—musical and academic—but I didn’t dare enroll in college. I knew better than to try getting a job. The few local friends who stayed in touch had returned to college themselves. With the media gone, the gate to freedom was finally wide open…and I had nowhere to go.

  Then came the fight. Mom wanted me to apply for winter term at a local college. I wasn’t ready, and the harder she pushed, the more I panicked until I told her everything.

  I told her about the forum comments. I told her about the online photos. I told her how many times I’d changed e-mails and the ugly things that I received each time someone tracked down my new address. I told her about the voice mail messages and the texts until I finally had to tell my friends to only call our landline.

  I spewed forth all the ugliness I’d kept inside, and Mom…Something in her shattered, and I had to watch my mother sobbing and shaking and blaming herself. Once, after Dad died, I saw Mom break down when she thought I was in bed. That was the worst thing I’d ever witnessed. Until this. And this was my fault.

  I’d gone that night, leaving a note on the table that told her none of this was her fault. Told her I just needed to get away for a few days. I’d be fine. I had money for a hotel room, and I was almost nineteen. I could handle this.

  I’d wanted to give her a break. I’d walked a few blocks, called a cab and directed the driver to a decent chain hotel, only to discover they required a credit card and ID showing I was over twenty-one. After two more hotels, someone took pity on me and suggested this cheap motel off the highway.

  As I cried, an inner voice called me a spoiled brat. I only needed to glance out the window to see cars dotting the parking lot. People stayed in places like this all the time, and if my family could afford better, that was no accomplishment of mine.

  But I thought of where I’d spent the summer, and I thought of my room at Juilliard, and I realized how much I’d lost. I wanted to scream that it wasn’t fair, that I didn’t deserve this. I wanted to cocoon myself in self-pity and—

  A bell clanged in my room. I sat there, eyes round, as the sound continued, a reverberating clang-clang-clang.

  “Goddamn it,” a man’s voice said in the next room. “Is that the fire alarm?”

  Fire alarm? My head jerked up. That is what I was hearing, an old-fashioned fire bell.

  It was almost certainly a false alarm. I’d been in hotels when the alarm went off, and while Mom insisted on leaving, most people didn’t bother.

  “Is that smoke?” the man’s voice came again.

  A woman responded, telling him to get his ass out of bed. I inhaled and caught the faintest whiff of smoke.

  The motel was on fire. Really on fire.

  I scrambled up. I’d gone to bed in a nightshirt, and it covered me well enough. I just needed my jacket. I spun around, searching for my coat, as the alarm clanged.

  Well, you’ll be warm soon enough, Lucy, if you don’t get out of here.

  I gave up, grabbed my purse and my cell phone and ran to the door. With trembling fingers, I unfastened the keychain, threw open the door and—

  “Smile for the camera, Lucy,” a voice said and a camera bulb flashed.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I sit up in bed, clutching my knees, the exact pose of that night long ago. I inhale the same stink of a cheap motel room, and the smell makes my gorge rise, but all I see is that photograph, sold to the tabloids within days.

  Me standing half-naked in the doorway of a cheap motel room.

  Oh, how far the mighty have fallen. One day, you’re screwing Colt Gordon in a hot tub, the next, you’re screwing God-knows-who in a highway motel.

  It’d been a setup, of course. A trash can fire lit by an enterprising paparazzo to flush me out.

  Now I’m in another cheap room, fourteen years later, clutching
my knees, my stomach heaving as I shiver. There’s no November breeze. If anything, the crappy air-conditioning leaves the room warm and humid. I still feel that frigid wind, though. Still hear the alarm bell. Still see the camera flashing and feel my stomach plummet as I realized I’d been set up.

  I thought I’d come so far, and instead, I’ve traveled full circle. I am right back where I began, all my hard work erased.

  As soon as the pity sparks, I reflexively force it back. I can still fix this. I’m no longer that girl, horrified at being photographed in a nightshirt. They can say what they want, post what they want, concoct whatever stories they want. I’m going to stay on top of this.

  I will turn myself in. I just need to be prepared. I just can’t risk being helpless again. I can’t risk losing it all again.

  Someday, I may look back on this as a tsunami of stupidity that washes Colt Gordon out to sea. I accept that possibility. I just won’t let myself be washed out to sea, not without a fight.

  * * *

  —

  I start my morning with a subway ride and a two-mile walk to a bus terminal, where I use a pay phone to call my mom. The police haven’t been to see her yet, which is a relief. I won’t tell her anything she can’t pass on—and I insist that she be honest with the police if they show up.

  I will not inflict any more pain on her than absolutely necessary. I’ll never forget the woman who broke down that afternoon so long ago.

  Next, I use an ATM. I only want to leave a record, pointing police to this bus depot. Yet when I check my bank balance, it shows over a thousand dollars. A care package from Mom? It must be. I withdraw my max—I’ll repay her later.

  Finally, I use my credit card to buy a ticket to Boston at the automated booth. Put that together with the cash withdrawal and the pay phone call to Mom, and I’m hoping the police will assume I’ve hopped a bus out of the state.