I need a good breakfast, and I need to analyze how much danger I’m currently in, and I need to process what PCTracy did. If taking that time to think and eat breakfast means I get caught, so be it.
The trouble, really, is that PCTracy knows he made a mistake. I called him a bastard, and I want him to be one and belligerently defend his actions.
What? I saved you, lady. I watched over you, and I saved you, and I beat up a guy who tried to assault you. You should be thanking me.
If he said that, I could delete this app and be done with him.
Sorry, PCTracy, but I don’t need a private investigator who’ll cyberstalk me and watch me as I sleep. That’s creepy as hell.
Except he said it was creepy himself. He acknowledged it first and never defended himself.
Was he just saying what I wanted to hear? Talking me off the ledge?
Maybe, but if he really believed he’d done me a favor, he’d be unable to let a little of that slip in.
I can’t dismiss him. But I can’t trust him, either. He betrayed that trust, and he treated me like a child.
Sure, stay out all night. That’s fine…because I’ll be secretly watching over you.
I feel patronized. The question, though, is whether he’d do the same for a man, and I suspect the answer is yes. To him, I’m not a woman in jeopardy needing male protection; I’m a client in jeopardy needing professional protection.
I don’t delete the app. I do close it, and I will leave it closed for a while.
It’s not until I’m nearly done with breakfast that I remember the link he sent. It leads to one of the CNR-wannabe sites, where a reporter caught up with Tiana, “caught up” being paparazzi-speak for “cornered.” Tiana is with Bess Tang, her mother’s assistant and Tiana’s ex. They’re walking out of a café after lunch yesterday. Tiana wears oversized sunglasses and a floppy face-shadowing hat, and she reminds me so much of her mother that my heart squeezes.
When the video begins, Tiana is throwing open the café door and striding out, Bess at her heels, talking fast. The camera is about ten feet away, and I expect it to descend on her, but it stays where it is. A young woman with purple hair zooms up to Tiana, saying, “Oh, my God, you’re Tiana,” as if there’s only one person in the world with that name.
Tiana keeps walking.
The purple-haired girl chases her, saying, “I’m sorry. I know this is a bad time. I just wanted to thank you for your work with the LGBT community.”
That makes Tiana stop. She slowly pivots.
The girl thrusts out a hand. “Thank you for being out there and for representing. It means a lot to me.”
Tiana can’t walk away from that. She should—I know what’s coming. I fell for this trick when Maureen Wilcox approached me for that article. Sure enough, after a brief exchange, the purple-haired girl says, “Shouldn’t you have a bodyguard?”
“Hmm?”
The girl laughs. “Maybe you do.” She nods at Bess. “Martial arts expert, right?”
“Uh, no. This is a friend. I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“Sure, you do. That bitch who killed your mother is on the loose.”
Tiana rolls her eyes. “I’m not worried about Lucy Callahan.”
“Why?” the girl presses forward. “You think she’s innocent?”
Tiana’s voice cools. “What I think is none of your business.” She turns to continue on, but the purple-haired girl leaps into her path. The camera person, whom Tiana hasn’t spotted yet, quickly walks past the trio. The purple-haired girl cuts her gaze toward the camera and then back to her quarry.
“Please move,” Bess says. “Ms. Morales has a meeting with the funeral director.”
“Morales? Are you switching to your mother’s surname, Tiana?”
“A double-barreled surname is a pain in the ass,” Tiana says. “I have used Morales for years. Now—”
“Your father thinks Lucy did it,” the girl says. “He believes they had an altercation, and Lucy killed her. He’s been very clear about that.”
Tiana shoulders past and walks faster, Bess hurrying to catch up. Tiana says something the camera doesn’t catch, under her breath presumably. As she speaks, though, words appear at the bottom of the screen, as if in translation.
Tiana: My father needs a full-time minder.
Bess: I know.
Tiana: Damn him.
I rewind a few seconds. The words fit her mouth movements, and when I look under the video, it says that a lip reader supplied the missing dialogue. A lip reader? Seriously?
The purple-haired girl catches up. “Colt thinks Lucy did it, and he knows her better than any of you.”
“No, he does not.” Again, Tiana mutters this, but now the camera is close enough to pick it up. She raises her voice. “I have complete confidence in the women and men of the New York Police Department. They will find my mother’s killer. If that turns out to be Lucy Callahan, so be it. Now get out of my way.”
The “interview” ends there with the purple-haired girl machine-gunning questions and Tiana ignoring them. A minute later, a car pulls up, and Tiana and Bess climb in. Once it’s gone, the girl walks to the camera.
“Seems we have a family feud brewing,” she says for her audience. “Tiana isn’t convinced Lucy killed her mother, and she’s not happy with Colt for saying so. It’s significant that she’s using her mother’s surname. Let’s just say the funeral should be interesting.”
She grins, a hyena scenting blood. I snap the browser window shut.
PCTracy wanted me to see that video. He sees a potential ally within the family—or at least a sympathetic ear. The fact that he got that out of what I just saw only proves how desperate we both are.
Well, she didn’t say you definitely killed her mother. That’s a start, right?
I shake my head. There’s no feud here.
My father needs a full-time minder.
Not “my father needs to shut his damn mouth.” This isn’t anger; it’s exasperation. I remember Colt complaining to Isabella about Karla constantly sending him packaged soundbites and then chastising him for speaking his mind instead.
I’m honest. People like that. Karla just doesn’t understand.
Karla understood just fine. She understood that Colt was indeed beloved for his honesty…in the same way you can’t help loving a child who says whatever he thinks. It’s endearing at five. At forty, though? Let’s just say Karla spent a lot of time that summer cleaning up Colt’s verbal vomit. She’d still been doing damage control after an impromptu interview at a spring awards show when he’d said he was happy he lost a role to a younger actor because the writing was shit and he’d have needed Isabella to rewrite the script.
When Colt claims to believe I killed Isabella, I’m not as hurt as I should be. That’s just Colt looking to blame me before anyone suspects him. Just because Tiana recognizes that doesn’t mean she’s on my side.
I leave the money for breakfast on the table along with a twenty-dollar tip. I’m barely out the door when Phyllis comes after me with “Oh, no, you don’t,” and presses the extra bill into my hand.
“You need that more than I do,” she says.
I flush and wonder how rough I look after a night outside. “No, really. I’m fine. I—”
“You’re going to need it if you keep running, hon. And if you want my advice, you need to keep running. Just be safer about it.”
I hope my face doesn’t show my reaction. She only means that I seem to be living on the streets, and I’m not dressed like someone who has been doing it for long.
“Thank you,” I say. “But I wanted to show my appreciation—”
“Show it later, when you’re out of this mess. Right now, you need every penny you’ve got if you’re going to keep your ass out o
f jail, Miss Lucy.”
I go still, so still I forget to breathe.
“Oh, I know who you are. Took me a while, but I figured it out. You need to be a lot more careful, hon. I read the news. Read it all those years ago, too, and I was spitting mad at what they did to you. Just a child, you were, and with a man like that?” She whistles. “I’d have been tempted myself, and I was no child. Men like him always take advantage of pretty girls. They think they’ve earned them, as if you’re a company bonus.”
“I didn’t kill—”
She shushes me and casts a quick look around. “I didn’t figure you did. Not on purpose, anyway. Now my Nathaniel, he’s always rolling his eyes at my conspiracy theories, but this has conspiracy painted all over it. You’re the perfect scapegoat, and they’re scapegoating you good. Money and power. It comes down to that. It always does.”
She shakes her head. “I bet that husband of hers did it, and someone’s covering it up for him. I used to like his movies, but after what happened to you, I never watched another one. He should have been run out of Hollywood, but instead, he got even more famous. Like seducing a teenage girl proved he still had it.”
She eases back. “You don’t need me saying any of that, not when you just want to get out of here in case I’m stalling you after I called the police.” She pats my arm. “You go on then. Run, and keep running until this gets sorted out.”
I pocket the twenty. “Can I at least give you a hug?”
She chuckles. “I’ll take that,” she says and embraces me.
* * *
—
I blame Phyllis for my next move. I’m sure she wouldn’t appreciate that, but after three days of hell, she is a blazing beacon of kindness and hope, as perfect as if I conjured her from wisps of daydream. A complete stranger who understood what happened to me fourteen years ago and who understands what’s happening now. Someone to pat my back and tell me everything will be okay—to tell me I’m okay.
I leave that encounter flying high and promising I truly will repay her. And, my hope and faith in humanity bolstered, I do exactly what I’d decided, mere moments before, not to do.
I call Tiana.
Well, I text her…after researching a way to do that online instead of text messaging.
Me: Tiana? It’s Lucy.
She answers four minutes later with a two-word profanity. I expect no less.
Me: Give me five minutes. Please.
Tiana: Where did you get this number? I’ll have you traced. You know that, right?
Me: Go ahead. But we need to talk.
Tiana: Oh, sure, let’s do that. We’ll chat. I’ll bare my soul and call Lucy Callahan a monstrous bitch and wail and ask how she could have done that to me. Or should I vow vengeance instead? Which will play better online?
I read that twice, stumbling on her use of the third person for me. Then it clicks.
Me: You don’t think it’s me.
Tiana: Of course it’s you, Lucy. Why would anyone contact me from an unknown number pretending to be Lucy Callahan? That’s just silly.
Tiana: I don’t know who you are, but this is harassment.
Me: 1984.
No response.
Me: That’s the book you were reading when I met you.
You were sitting by the pool reading 1984 while Jamie swam. He wouldn’t take his swim shirt from your mom, so I jumped in, fully clothed, and gave it to him.
Silence. Dead silence. She’s disconnected. I’m sure of it. Disconnected and blocked this number. Then,
Tiana: You took my mother’s phone. That’s where you got my number.
Me: I didn’t kill her. I swear it.
Tiana: And you know what, Genevieve? I don’t actually care. My mother is dead. Yes, she was murdered, but right now, all I care about is the part where she’s DEAD.
Me: I’m sorry.
I get that two-word profanity again.
Me: I deserve that. And you’re right. I shouldn’t be contacting you. I won’t reach out again. If you want to talk to me—if you want to know what happened that night—you can e-mail me.
I give my new e-mail address. She doesn’t answer. I stare at the phone for twenty minutes. Then I pocket it and move on.
THIRTY-ONE
I need to do something new with my hair. I spend twenty minutes in a family restroom with a bottle of shampoo, removing the temporary dye. I feel bad taking up space that someone with a baby may need, but it’s still early, and I didn’t see anyone outside with a child. I manage to wash about half the dye out, leaving my hair auburn. Then I stare in the mirror.
Does that help?
Not really.
I should cut it, but I’m not sure that would help, either. It’s the obvious direction to go—like a fugitive shaving off his beard. What I really need is a wig. I know how to wear them from my filmmaking camp days. The problem is getting one without someone taking a closer look and realizing why I’m wig shopping.
I make another risky decision. I suppose my interaction with Tiana should have quashed that urge, but actually, she responded exactly as I expected. Honest and mature. She did not, however, rail at me, or accuse me or even threaten to report our chat to the police. So I take another chance. I open the messaging app and ping PCTracy.
LlamaGirl: I need a wig.
A reply comes in less than sixty seconds.
PCTracy: Absolutely. That’s a good idea. I’m presuming you’d like me to buy it, which is also wise.
Before I can reply, he continues:
PCTracy: It should be longer than your hair is now. Significantly longer. Dark blond. Too light won’t suit you. A long dark blond wig.
LlamaGirl: Given this some thought, have you?
PCTracy: I’ve been coming up with a list of things we can do better.
LlamaGirl: Like not tracking me without my permission?
It’s a low blow, but I have to say it. Then I add:
LlamaGirl: And don’t apologize again. I just want to move forward with an understanding that you will not track me.
PCTracy: Understood and agreed. I’ll put together a bag for you—clothing, wig and a hotel keycard.
PCTracy: Is there any chance I can give it to you in person?
LlamaGirl: No. After last night, I need more time.
He doesn’t push, just provides instructions for picking up the bag. He’s going to store it at a left-luggage facility and leave the claim tag elsewhere.
It would, of course, have just been easier to meet in person. After last night, though, I really am not ready. I’m skittish, and I need space to reevaluate. Turning myself in is seeming more and more like the right move. The smart move. But I keep thinking of that bloody towel and the other evidence the police claim to have. I also think of the progress PCTracy is making. If it’s possible to get a little downtime in a safe hotel, then I need that. Sleep. Rest. Think. Make clear-headed decisions.
* * *
—
PCTracy promised to have the bag in place by one. I wait until two to retrieve the claim ticket from a restroom. That goes off without a hitch. Same with getting the bag from the left-luggage spot—a souvenir shop in Times Square.
I resist the urge to peek inside the roller bag until I’m far enough from the pickup point. When I do, I ping PCTracy.
LlamaGirl: A stuffed dog?
PCTracy: It’s part of the costume.
LlamaGirl: Uh-huh…
PCTracy: You’re “woman who travels with small dog.” There’s a carrier for the dog. All they’ll see through it is the white fur. I assembled the rest of the costume to fit the persona.
LlamaGirl: Still not getting the dog part…
PCTracy: It’s the accessory equivalent of a facial scar or a bad tattoo. All people will notice is your dog. All people will remember is the dog. It also gives you an excuse to keep your head down. Talk to the dog. Coo at it.
LlamaGirl: You’re having way too much fun with this.
PCTracy: You’ll make a great “woman with small dog.”
LlamaGirl: I don’t think that’s a compliment.
PCTracy: LOL. It’s not an insult, either. Now, when you’re ready, I got early check-in for your room. I’m going to strongly suggest that once you’re in, you stay in. Get some rest. Let me do the legwork, and you stick to online research.
Looking at my reflection in the restroom mirror, I snort with laughter. When I picture “woman with small dog,” I imagine a very chic, well-dressed woman of a certain age, striding through New York with a fluffy dog’s head sticking out of her purse.
Instead, I’m wearing a long dark-blond wig with yoga pants and a barely waist-length lightweight angora sweater. For shoes, I get Keds with no socks. I also have new sunglasses and a new purse. Both are emblazoned with high-fashion names, though I’m guessing they’re street-vendor knockoffs.
Every Step She Takes Page 21
