Every Step She Takes

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Every Step She Takes Page 23

by K. L. Armstrong

I still map out an escape route.

  Or you could just, you know, not walk into a potential trap.

  Tiana might very well be luring me into a trap, but I need to either move forward or turn myself in. This is moving forward.

  I march up and rap on the door. It opens, and there is Tiana, dressed in a white linen shirt and black jeans. Seeing her, my eyes prickle. Ridiculous phrases spring to mind.

  You’re all grown up.

  You look amazing.

  I’m so proud of you.

  Instead, I say only, “Tiana,” with an abrupt nod.

  She returns the nod, steps back into the room and shuts the door behind me. Without a word, she leads me upstairs. As we pass the second floor, I see a meeting room with whiteboards. The third level is another meeting room, this one with couches and a windowed view. In the middle, a catered lunch waits on a table.

  Tiana waves me to a seat.

  As I sit, I say, “If I don’t say that I’m sorry for your loss, it’s because it sounds like platitudes, and I’m the last person you want to hear those from. So I’ll only say that your mother was an incredible woman. She was the reason I took the job in the first place, and I never stopped admiring her.”

  I brace for an angry rejoinder, but Tiana only sits, her expression unreadable. One seemingly endless minute of silence, and then she says, “You were my first crush.”

  I must give a start at that because her lips twist in a smile.

  “Not what you expected to hear?” She reaches for the linen napkin and folds it over her lap. “I’d started feeling as if I liked girls. That’s why I bugged you so much about your dating. I was working through my own sexuality. Somewhere along the way, you answered my questions, not by anything you said, but because I fell for you. My first crush.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She sputters a choked laugh, relaxing as she settles into her chair. “And that’s not what I expected to hear, but oddly appropriate, under the circumstances. It screwed me up for a while. The first girl I liked slept with my father. Freud would have a ball with that one. Took me a while to get over it. I even tried boys, which did not go well.”

  “I am sorry.”

  She eyes me and then nods. “Well, you mentioned having a complicated relationship with my mother. I have a complicated one with you. So we start on similar ground.” She takes a bite of salad and then says, casually, “Mom said you never had sex with Dad. That those photos caught the extent of it. She believed that, you know.”

  “Good, because it’s the truth, and I suspect she believed it because your father’s story matched. I can’t make you believe it, though, Tiana. It sounds like a convenient fiction—the camera caught our one and only encounter. But it did. I made a mistake. A horrible, drunken mistake that I will never live down. I hurt your mother. I hurt you and Jamie. I cannot undo that.”

  She flinches at her brother’s name.

  “How is Jamie?” I ask, my voice softening.

  “Fine,” she says brusquely. She meets my gaze. “My brother had problems before you came along. You didn’t help them, but you didn’t cause them, either, so don’t go taking credit for that.”

  She sips her water. “Mom said you had medical proof that you were a virgin after you left us.”

  I wince. “I stupidly thought that would resolve everything. I was, thankfully, convinced otherwise. If you want to hash out what happened fourteen years ago, we can do that. I’d rather not. Blame me for whatever you want—or need—to blame me for, Tiana. I’ll accept it. What I came here for today was the one thing I won’t accept blame for. Your mother’s death.”

  “Then turn yourself in. Let the police sort this out.”

  “Right, trust that the truth will set me free just like it did the last time. No one wanted to hear my story then, Tiana. Including your mother. I poured my heart into a letter for her, and she sent me a vitriolic response that I can recite from memory. I thought that meant she rejected my apology and my explanation, but she never even read it. She judged me without opening—”

  I stop abruptly. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. I…” I take a deep breath and rise. “I think I should leave now. We aren’t going to get anywhere with this. We can’t. Too much anger and too much bad blood, and I’m going to say things I don’t want to say to you.”

  “If you killed my mother by accident—”

  “I was nowhere near your mother when she died, Tiana.”

  “Then there wouldn’t be a warrant for your arrest. You seem to want honesty here, Lucy, but you’re obviously lying. You were in her room.”

  “Yes, hours after her death. I was summoned by whoever is trying to frame me.”

  She shoves her chair back. “Frame you? Is that where you’re going with this? I thought you were smarter than that.”

  “I found her body. I lied about that because I panicked. I was summoned to breakfast by the killer, who was using your mom’s phone and pretending to be her. When I arrived, the door was ajar. I walked in and found her, and before I could report it, the hotel staff arrived. I hid in the closet because I was about to be discovered at a murder scene holding the victim’s phone.”

  “So you do have her phone. Which you just happened to be holding after finding her body…instead of calling the cops.”

  “I was confirming that she’d sent me those texts because I was freaking out. Yes, I should have called the police first, but at the time, all I could think was that I’d been summoned to a murder scene.”

  “I’d like her phone back.”

  “And I would like to stay out of prison.” I take out my old cell phone, open my messages and pass it over. “This is our conversation thread. You can see her asking to switch to breakfast—and why—and me agreeing. Then you can see me texting from inside her room, saying the door was left open.”

  She reads the texts. Then she scrolls up, as if making sure this is part of the thread where I definitely had been speaking to Isabella earlier.

  “I’m telling you my story,” I say, “knowing that when I leave, you might contact the police and pass all this along, including the fact that I lied to them and fled the scene of a crime. I won’t ask you not to. There’s isn’t a nondisclosure agreement on this conversation, Tiana. I made a mistake, one that I couldn’t figure out how to undo. I still can’t.”

  “You’re digging yourself into a hole. You do realize that, don’t you?”

  “Of course I realize that. But from where I stand, I’m not digging a hole. I’m sliding down a slope into a fiery pit, and at any moment, I can decide to fling myself into that pit, and I’ll be exactly where I would have been if I let the hotel staff find me at your mother’s murder scene. I’m scrabbling up this slope, and I’m still slipping, but I’m not ready to jump to my doom.”

  She keeps looking at the phone. At those messages.

  “A lawyer could help—” she begins.

  “I tried that Monday morning. My mother found me one—and only one—lawyer who would agree to represent me, and I walked into his building to overhear him talking to the police with media there to televise my arrest.”

  Her head shoots up. “He can’t do that.”

  “Well, he did, and I’m past the point—long past it—of expecting anyone to act fairly. If you doubt the veracity of those texts, contact your mother’s phone company and get her records. I’d be surprised if the police haven’t done that already.”

  “But you’re saying her killer was in the suite with her body, texting you. That makes no sense.”

  “Was her account connected to any other devices? A laptop? A tablet? A smartwatch?”

  “Her tablet is missing, too. It was connected to her account, so she could answer texts on it.” She looks at me. “Whoever sent these used her tablet. Can that be tracked? The device ide
ntified?”

  “Hopefully. Presumably.”

  She looks from the phone to me. Then she hands it back and says, “You need to leave.”

  “No lunch, then, huh?” I say with a wry smile. “Can I at least take it to go? The dining options of a fugitive are terribly limited.”

  She doesn’t return my smile, and I falter. I’m not thrilled by the abrupt dismissal, but I understand she has what she wanted. I expect, though, that she’ll have the grace to joke back and say yes, take a doggie bag.

  Instead, she reaches into her purse and pulls out a wad of bills. “Take—”

  “Jesus,” I mutter. “I was joking. I don’t need your food, Tiana, and I definitely don’t need your money. You could have just skipped the whole fake-lunch invitation and said you wanted to talk.”

  “Please, take this,” she says. “You just—you need to go. Now.”

  I glance at the money…and her trembling hand.

  “You called the police,” I say slowly as realization hits. “You called them before I even arrived.”

  “I…” She swallows, and in her face, I’m reminded of those rare moments when her mature veneer would crack and I’d see the ten-year-old beneath.

  She straightens. “Karla was right. She told me not to turn you in, and I…I reminded her who paid her salary. Damn it, I don’t ever learn.” A sharp intake of breath as she shakes her head. “No time for that. I made a mistake, and I can’t fix it now. Just go, Lucy. Quickly.”

  “You called me here to talk,” I say. “You said you wanted to listen to me, and you summoned the police before I could say a word. Then you told me I should trust the process. Trust that people will listen to my story before they decide my fate.” I look her square in the eye. “You didn’t.”

  Her mouth opens, but I’m already sweeping past.

  “Goodbye, Tiana,” I say. “I hoped for better from you. I really did.”

  I leave her, standing in that room, money still outstretched as I clamber down the stairs.

  THIRTY-THREE

  I barely reach the bottom of the stairs when the door swings open. I backpedal, hands rising.

  It isn’t a cop, though. It’s Karla. She’s a little grayer. Still dressed impeccably with that no-nonsense expression I know so well. Then she sees me. Her eyes widen. Her lips part, and she pauses. Just a split-second pause before she lets the door half close as she takes out her phone.

  “I really can’t talk now,” she says, loudly into the phone. “I’m in the middle of something.”

  It takes two seconds for me to realize she’s faking a call to give me a chance to run. As I dart through the next room, someone outside calls to Karla. Warns her to come outside, get away from the door.

  The police.

  Karla arrived just ahead of them. Maybe hoping to speak to me. Maybe hoping to change Tiana’s mind about turning me in.

  Our eyes meet, and she nods. Then she turns away to continue her fake call.

  I jog through the lower level and find a door. Behind me, Karla’s voice comes clear as she imperiously informs the police that she is Tiana’s manager, and she has every right to be in this house, and they will not order her to do anything.

  Thank you, Karla.

  I race through the back door. It opens into a yard with a solid, six-foot wood fence. I’m about to crumple in defeat when I spot a gate.

  I zoom through the gate and race along the back of the fence as Karla and the police argue, their voices wafting out to me.

  Then I cut through to the next street and keep going.

  * * *

  —

  It’s time to end this. I’m not making progress. Not enough, anyway. As annoyed as I am about being stashed away in the hotel, I need to speak to Thompson and negotiate my surrender.

  The last time I was in his building, I never got as far as his office. Now that I do, I’m surprised. I thought it’d be just another anonymous door. Instead, the tenth floor is his office.

  To be honest, it’s not what I hoped for. I guess, in my mind, I constructed a persona for Thompson, that of the scrappy, tenacious underdog. The guy who plays fast and loose ethically because he’s making a name for himself. What I see here is something very different.

  This isn’t a lone defense attorney with a receptionist and an investigator. It’s a full-fledged firm. His firm. Thompson’s name is on the doors with other lawyers listed in smaller print.

  I push aside my misgivings. Overall, PCTracy has been good to me. Really good. Time to step up and say to Thompson, “I want to hire you.”

  The problem is that I’d expected to walk into a tiny office and deal with a receptionist. There’s no way I’m stepping into a firm where I’ll instantly be recognized by a dozen people. Once I pass through those doors, I can’t change my mind, and I still need that option.

  I retreat to the stairwell, take out my prepaid and text Thompson.

  Me: It’s LC. I’d like to talk.

  It takes a minute. Then he responds.

  Thompson: I do not recognize this number. Please identify yourself more completely.

  Me: Screw me over by calling the cops again, and I’ll report you to the bar association.

  Thompson: L, good to hear from you. I presume you’ve had a change of heart?

  Me: I’d like to talk. Meet me in the lobby in five minutes. Can you do that?

  Thompson: On my way.

  I hurry to the floor beneath his. The first elevator to arrive is empty. I push it again. The elevator opens…and Thompson is there. He looks up in surprise.

  I get on and then press the Stop button.

  Thompson smiles, completely relaxed, brilliant white teeth flashing. “I feel like you’re about to make me an offer I can’t refuse.”

  “That depends. I presume you’re still interested in representing me?”

  “Very interested, but I would suggest we not talk in a stopped elevator. Let’s head up to the eleventh floor. I have a private office there where we can speak undisturbed.”

  “One question first. Who is PCTracy?”

  His smile falters. “P. C….,” he says, rolling the letters off like initials.

  My finger freezes on the button for the eleventh floor.

  “PCTracy,” I say slower.

  “I have the feeling the answer to this question is very important to you,” he says. “That if I fail your test, I will not have you as a client after all. Which puts us in a very awkward position. I’m not at liberty to answer that question, Ms. Callahan.”

  Part of me leaps at his response, calling it perfectly reasonable. Whether he’s PCTracy or it’s an employee, the guy was aiding and abetting a fugitive. Thompson’s hesitation makes sense.

  Or it would if PCTracy hadn’t asked multiple times for a face-to-face meeting.

  “I understand,” I say. “But I’m sure you understand, too, that under the circumstances, I need a guarantee that I’m speaking to the right person.”

  His brows knit. Again, it’s a fleeting reaction, smoothed out in a blink before he says, “You think I’m P.C. Tracy?”

  “No, but I need confirmation that you know him.”

  He eases back, smiling. “Well, of course I do. You wouldn’t be here, otherwise, correct?”

  Does he just not know the name his investigator is using? Possibly, but I can see in his face that he has no clue what I’m talking about. Who I’m talking about.

  I take out my phone.

  “We really should go upstairs to my office,” Thompson says.

  I lift a finger and ping PCTracy.

  PCTracy: Perfect timing. I have something for you.

  LlamaGirl:
I’m with Thompson.

  PCTracy: You’re not in the hotel???

  LlamaGirl: Daniel Thompson doesn’t seem to know who you are. Is there a reason for that?

  PCTracy: Well, possibly because I don’t know who he is, either.

  LlamaGirl: If you do, now isn’t the time to be cagey. Just confirm that you’re working with him.

  PCTracy: I’m not.

  It takes effort to turn off the app. Even more effort to hit the small x and delete it. Part of me screams, “What are you doing?” The other part…The other part keeps remembering the man in the alley, the man in the park.

  The man who knew where I was.

  PCTracy admitted he knew where I was. That he could track me through the app.

  The only reason I didn’t suspect this answer is that I was convinced PCTracy was linked to Thompson. Hell, the only reason I started talking to PCTracy was that I thought he was connected to Thompson. He had to be, right?

  No, he just had to be an investigator who tracked down my e-mail address and reached out at a time when I was vulnerable, a time that happened to coincide with my interactions with a defense attorney. Then PCTracy mentioned he was an investigator who’d worked for defense attorneys, and I made the connection. A completely false connection.

  “Ms. Callahan?” Thompson says.

  Just hire him. Forget this PCTracy nonsense, and hire him. He’s a good lawyer. He…

  He tricked me. Betrayed me. Any positive impression I had of Thompson’s skill came from working with PCTracy. Without that, Thompson is the same treacherous asshole I’d fled on Monday.

  I’ve spent two days convinced that the man who was helping me worked for Thompson…was likely even Thompson himself.

  He’s not.

  “Sorry,” I say with a rueful smile. “I think I got my wires crossed. But it’s fine. I still need a lawyer, obviously. Let’s go chat in that private office.”

  I hit the button for the eleventh floor. When the doors open, I plan to stay on and shut the doors behind him. Only he nudges me off first. We’re two paces away, and the elevator doors have just started to close when I do a wide-eyed “Oh, shit!” as if I dropped something. I dive back onto the elevator.

 

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