Shower, floss, brush my teeth, floss again—I don’t understand—wash my face, comb my hair, check under my nails to make sure I didn’t miss anything—why would someone steal the footage if it’s backed up anyway?—scrub them with a nail brush anyway, put on pajamas—and if they killed Liza, why didn’t they kill me?—climb into bed.
I tune the clock radio to static, close my eyes, and rub my feet together.
John Cusack walks across the Chicago River. “Top five things I miss about—”
“Marissa—are you awake?”
I bolt upright, disoriented, arms flying out to catch myself, even though I’m incredibly safely ensconced in a California king. Before I can do anything but suck in a breath so sharp it burns the back of my throat, the lamp flicks on.
It’s Grace and Suzy.
The words explode out of me: “What the hell?”
The girls exchange a look.
“We came to see how you’re doing,” Suzy says.
“We heard what happened,” Grace adds.
“So you broke into my room—do you not—when it’s the middle of the night—and there’s a killer—I mean, this is just such a—who are you?”
I can’t seem to stop yelling.
Grace winces. “Maybe we didn’t think this one through.”
“We just wanted to make sure you were okay,” Suzy says.
“And maybe we got a little carried away—”
“But also, we were thinking—”
I hold up my hand. I reach over to turn off the radio, then I give myself a moment to collect my thoughts. There aren’t many of them, so it doesn’t take long.
“How did you get in here?” I ask.
Both girls look up at the ceiling.
“Well?” Grace says.
“We might have lifted a key from housekeeping,” Suzy says.
I clench my jaw. “What about the deadbolt?”
“We lifted the key for that, too,” Suzy says.
“And the security latch?”
Grace holds up a “Do Not Disturb” sign. She gives it a little shake. “We used this to, like, jiggle it open.”
“Where’d you learn how to do that?”
“YouTube?”
I scratch at the back of my head where my ponytail has tangled against my scalp. “So much for security, I guess.” I swing my legs over the side of the bed, hop off, and stalk over to the connecting door. Just as I lift my hand, Isaiah pulls it open.
“Everything okay?” he asks, casually.
For a moment all I can do is punch at the air in Grace and Suzy’s general direction.
“They broke in,” I eventually manage.
Isaiah gives the girls a narrow look. “How long did it take you?”
“About twenty seconds,” Suzy says.
“Huh.” He walks over to the door and pulls it open. Out in the hallway, flanking the door to Liza’s room—now cordoned off with crime scene tape—are two uniformed police officers. “Too busy guarding that door to keep an eye on this one?” Isaiah asks them.
The shorter officer shrugs. “They said it was their mom’s room.”
“You didn’t wonder why they were out and about in the middle of the night?”
The taller one points at Suzy. “She said she needed . . . girl stuff.”
Suzy smirks. “It’s pronounced TAM-pon, Greg.”
Grace bites her thumbnail and stares intently at her toes.
Isaiah exchanges a few low words with the officers before closing the door behind him. “I’ll have one of my guys out there from now on,” he tells me, leaning close.
“You don’t think the girls are in danger, do you?”
“Until we figure out what’s going on, I think everyone’s in danger.”
His breath is warm against my skin, and I take an ungainly half step back, ducking awkwardly to my left, barely managing not to trip over my feet as I retreat to the other side of the room.
I glance at the girls, then at Isaiah, and I make a graceless back-and-forth gesture between them. “This is Isaiah,” I say. “He’s also pretending to be a detective.”
Isaiah coughs. “Pretending?”
Suzy frowns. “Also?”
“They’re investigating the Caitlyn Kelly murder,” I explain. “They think Billy Lyle’s innocent.”
The girls are watching me closely, wearing expressions my own face is familiar with: They’re trying to figure out if I’m making fun of them. I’m not—though it wouldn’t be too hard, were I so inclined. They’ve changed clothes since I saw them last, both of them dressed now in mismatched black. Grace has tucked her hair under a Yankees cap; Suzy’s socks are decorated with tiny skulls.
“What’s so funny?” Grace asks.
“Nothing,” I say, honestly. “You’re running around without supervision in a hotel where someone was just murdered. That’s not remotely funny. I truly have no idea what the appropriate response is in this moment, emotional or otherwise. Calling your parents, probably.”
Grace takes a step forward, a piteous crinkle between her eyebrows. “Please don’t.”
My hand taps out a rhythm against my hip. “How old are you two?”
Grace swallows. “I’ll be fourteen in August.”
I look at Suzy.
“I’ll be fourteen next August?”
This time I do laugh. At that age, I was busy saving up for a laser disc player and refusing to take showers after gym class because I’d seen Carrie too many times. What would it even feel like to be so assured, so daring, at such a young age? At any age. Were they born this way or did they learn it somehow? Who from? Is it generational? Can they can teach me, too?
“That’s old enough to know not to break into someone’s room,” Isaiah’s saying, which, yes, is also a really important point, and now that I think about it, I am extremely upset that they invaded my space, but—
“I’m sure they had a good reason,” I hear myself saying.
They tear their eyes from Isaiah and turn toward me.
“We do,” Grace says, slowly.
“We have a really good reason,” Suzy says.
I scrub at my nose with the back of my hand.
“Go on,” Isaiah says.
Suzy bounces up on her toes. “We know everyone’s saying that Billy killed Liza.”
“They are?” I say, unconvincingly.
Suzy rolls her eyes. “She was killed the same way Caitlyn was and left in the same place and dressed in the same outfit. Of course that’s what they’re saying.”
“But you don’t believe it,” Isaiah guesses.
“It doesn’t make sense,” she says.
“I agree.”
Both girls blink in surprise.
“Anjali thinks there’s another likely suspect,” Isaiah explains. “And it’s not Billy.”
I tug on Isaiah’s sleeve. “Should you really be telling them this?”
He glances over. “It kind of seems like they’re just going to find out anyway.”
“We already know about Ryan,” Suzy says, loudly.
“See?” he murmurs.
“—and anyway, he’s obviously a red herring.”
Isaiah’s head comes up. He fixes the girls with a look that has them shuffling their feet and looking off to the side, and only when Grace’s lip starts to wobble does he soften his expression. He sighs and wedges his body as best he can into the chintz armchair, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Okay,” he says. “I’m listening. Tell me why this investigation I’ve dedicated dozens of valuable manhours to is pointless.”
Suzy takes a deep breath. “For one thing, Ryan was just nine years old when Caitlyn was killed.”
“And living in San Diego,” Grace adds.
A pause.
>
“Just how bad at this do you think I am?” Isaiah asks, wonderingly.
Suzy clears her throat. “Yes, well, did you also know he hasn’t left his mom’s basement for three days?”
“What? How did you—”
“Our friend Quincy hacked into Ryan’s T-Mobile account.”
Isaiah blinks. “I have an entire team trying to get that information.”
Grace reaches out and pats him on the shoulder. “I’m sure they’d be faster if they could break the law, too.”
“But you still think we’re talking about a single killer here, right?” I ask, settling myself awkwardly on the edge of the bed.
“No,” Isaiah says. “If the person who killed Caitlyn is still around—which, in my opinion, is highly unlikely—why would they kill again? Especially now, with so many people around.”
“A perfectly reasonable point,” Grace says. “Unless there’s a really compelling motive.”
Isaiah raises an eyebrow. “Which is?”
“The movie,” Suzy says. “We think there’s something in there. A clue. A prop—or a line of dialogue, we don’t know what. But it’s something the police missed the first time around, and we bet it points to the identity of Caitlyn’s killer. I mean—it fits, right? He broke into the projector room to destroy the evidence, and then he killed Liza to make sure the movie would never get made.”
It’s such a tidy solution—and so close to the plots of at least two movies I’m extremely fond of—that I feel a little bad pointing out the obvious.
“But they didn’t destroy the footage,” I say, gently. “They just destroyed one copy of it. There are probably at least three separate back-ups. This is a major Hollywood production; we have millions of dollars. We’re not film students.”
Suzy frowns. “Oh. Well, whoever killed Caitlyn has to be pretty old by now. Maybe they don’t know about all that.”
“About . . . computers?”
She sinks down onto the loveseat and pulls one of the pillows into her lap. “Fine, maybe the killer was just trying to get the production shut down, then.”
“I suppose that’s possible,” Isaiah allows.
Her chin comes back up. “Because they know if the movie’s released, the truth will come out!”
Isaiah rubs his neck with both hands and mumbles something to himself that sounds an awful lot like the hell am I even doing.
“In my experience,” he says, “people are moved by simple greed or big feelings—not grand conspiracy. And then one small bad decision snowballs into a bunch of big ones.”
Suzy and Grace object to this in tandem.
“But what evidence—”
“We’re not babies—”
“I’m a professional—”
I look down at my feet. They’re swinging, ankles together, my heels knocking against the bedframe in a steady, satisfying rhythm. After a moment, something shifts in my mind, a slight but necessary adjustment, a nudge to a picture frame to make it level.
“Why did Anjali hire you?” I ask Isaiah.
Isaiah hesitates. “She told me there had been a number of disturbing incidents and inappropriate workplace interactions on set. There was one ex-employee in particular she wanted me to keep an eye on—Ryan Kassowitz. She said she had reason to believe some members of the production might be in physical danger.”
“Like Liza?”
“Among others.”
“Like me?” I ask, quietly.
“I know,” he says. “I let you down tonight. I let Liza down tonight. But I can’t do my job if my clients aren’t honest with me—and I’m beginning to think Tony and Anjali have been holding out on me since day one. I’m done with their bullshit. Starting tomorrow, we’re going to get some answers.” He looks at Suzy, then Grace, then me. “The four of us, we’re going to figure this thing out.”
SUZY KOH: Okay, so a lot of our listeners have been asking us about this—and the answer is yes, we really did break into a hotel room with a “Do Not Disturb” tag.
GRACE PORTILLO: It was super easy.
SUZY KOH: For real. I’m never staying in a hotel room again. [pause] I mean, unless it’s a really nice one.
TWENTY-FOUR
So I’ve been thinking about the Bobbsey Twins,” Isaiah announces as he strides through the connecting door.
I only managed to get a few, fitful hours of sleep after he took the girls back to their rooms late last night, so it’s no surprise that I have no idea what this is supposed to mean. I cast my mind about for context until I realize he must be talking about Grace and Suzy.
“But they don’t look anything alike.”
“Yes,” he says, “that’s why it’s a—”
“And weren’t the Bobbsey Twins a boy and a girl?”
Isaiah sighs. “Forget I said that. My point is, I think they might be onto something.”
I’m not sure if I’m still waking up or if he’s just trying to inject some drama into the conversation, but either way, I’m out of patience.
“If we’re going to do this,” I say, “you should know that I really hate it when people talk like they’re going to commercial. Please get to the point.”
He rubs his neck. “I’m just trying to say that I’m willing to consider the possibility that Liza’s death does, in fact, have something to do with Caitlyn’s murder.”
“Why didn’t you just say that from the start?” I ask, swinging my backpack awkwardly up onto my shoulders. “Why’d you have to do that whole Bobbsey Twins bit—it didn’t even make sense.”
He looks down at my backpack. “Do you really need to bring that?”
“Be prepared—isn’t that your motto?”
“That’s the Boy Scouts.”
“Are you really going to pretend you weren’t a Boy Scout?”
“Just stay close. If anyone asks, you’re going to the doctor for a follow-up.”
“Wait, what—”
He ushers me out into the hallway, where I come face-to-solar-plexus with a huge stone slab of a man. He’s nearly twice my height and three times my weight. When he crosses his arms, his pectorals strain at the fabric of his button-down shirt.
I blink up at him. “I’m going to the doctor for a follow-up.”
Isaiah hooks two fingers around my elbow and draws me down the hallway, toward the stairs. “Relax, he’s one of mine. You can tell by the general air of competence.”
We’re heading for the movie theater. We agreed last night that our first order of business today should be a walk-through of the attack. Isaiah hopes it might jog my memory. I’m not so optimistic—but I want to make sure the police turned off the projector correctly.
At the bottom of the stairs, Isaiah pulls me behind him. “Hold on.” He cracks open the lobby door and glances out. He closes the door gently and presses a finger to the earpiece I hadn’t noticed until just this second.
“Hey, Jonesy, wanna keep those guys busy for a second?”
He waits for acknowledgment, then beckons me forward. “Come on. Quietly.”
The lobby is so deserted it feels as if it’s been empty for years. The bar and restaurant are dark; every curtain is closed. None of the lamps are lit. The only sign of recent life is a vacuum cleaner that has been abandoned by one of the seating areas. It’s still plugged into the wall.
I wonder, fleetingly, what happened to the cat.
Isaiah leads me through the lobby, keeping close to the wall. Standing at the other end of the room, just next to the entrance, are two uniformed cops. They’re laughing with a sandy-haired man the size of a pickup truck.
“Another one of yours?” I whisper.
Isaiah’s hand squeezes mine.
We make it to the end of the hall and round the corner. As soon as we’re out of sight, Isaiah tugs on my hand, pulling me alongside him
.
“How many employees do you have?” I ask.
“Those two and three more. I have a second team just outside Baltimore, but the cops aren’t letting anyone on or off the island right now, no exceptions. Early this morning they turned away a fishing boat with two photographers stowed away on board.” He pauses. “Unfortunately, they came back with helicopters.”
I wince. “So the news is out?”
“The news is out.”
I stop short, overcorrect, and stumble forward.
Isaiah grabs my shoulder to steady me. “You okay?”
“I just realized I should call my friend.”
“It can’t wait?”
“If she doesn’t hear from me and has reason to believe something bad has happened, there’s probably no one alive who’ll be able to keep her off this island. Not even you.”
He glances back toward the lobby. “Okay, but make it fast.”
I reach for my back pocket—
“Actually, can I use your phone?”
He raises an eyebrow.
“If I call from my phone,” I explain, “she’s more likely to pick it up because she knows the number.”
“You’re calling your friend—your friend who would apparently fight through police and special forces to get to you if she thought you were in danger—and you’re hoping it goes to voice mail?”
I nod. “Yes, exactly.”
He gives me an exceptionally unimpressed look. “Use your own phone, Marissa.”
“Fine.” I flip open the production phone and cringe when I see the display. Twenty missed calls.
I dial her number—and brace myself.
“Amy?”
I’m greeted with a slurry of words and noises too complicated for me to even begin to parse, so I just keep repeating I’m okay until she quiets down.
“It’s true, then?” she asks.
“That depends,” I say, carefully.
“At first everyone was saying it was an overdose, but I just read that she was murdered? And that now there’s some manhunt?”
I cover the phone with my hand and look at Isaiah. “The police haven’t put out a statement yet?”
Pretty as a Picture Page 22
