Page 2 of Every Step She Takes
Andthatis why I decide not to call the police, no matter how big a mistake that could be. I’ve clawed my way from under the shadow of my past, and I will not fall back into that pit of paranoia and grief.
I still unlock my phone, ready to call 113 at the slightest sign of trouble. Then I push the door open enough to peer inside.
The tiny kitchenette and living area are empty. There’s no place to hide. Even the closet under the stairs is filled with storage shelves.
My gaze snags on a table. On it rests a box that I definitely didn’t leave there. With an apartment this small, it must be kept spotless.
There is a shoebox-sized parcel on my table, wrapped in mailing-paper brown.
Bomb.
Even as I think that, my brain scoffs. A bomb? Really? I’m not a politician, not a person who has been in the news beyond the entertainment pages, and that was fourteen years ago. These days, no one is going to send me a bomb.
Still, I inch toward the table, ears trained for any noise from the upstairs loft bedroom. It’s definitely a parcel. A courier package with all the appropriate labels and stamps for an overseas delivery. It’s from the United States, and it’s addressed to…
Lucy Callahan.
I haven’t used that name in ten years.
Chapter Two
New York, 2005
I was replaying the voicemail message when my roommate walked into our dorm room.
Nylah waved at my cell phone. “It’s calledtelemarketing, Lucy. Hang up.”
I lowered the phone. “Hmm?”
“You looked confused, which means you’re listening to some spiel about duct cleaning, making absolutely sure it’s sales before you hang up.” She paused. “No, actually, Lucy Callahan doesn’t hang up on anyone. That would be rude.”
I set the phone down and stepped aside so she could get to the coffee maker. No sane person came between Nylah and her 3 p.m. fix.
“It was actually a voice message from an old teacher,” I said. “I took a summer film class with him a few years back.”
“Ah, yes, film classes. Before you abandoned your Hollywood dreams for a musical career.”
I rolled my eyes. While I loved film, I never earned more than faint praise for my directing and screenwriting. My viola playing, on the other hand, landed me here at Juilliard on a scholarship.
Nylah added grounds to her coffee maker. “Please tell me this former teacher called to say he’s belatedly realized your brilliance and wants to offer you a paid internship.” She paused, finger hovering over the Brew button. “Unless he’s skeevy. Is there any chance he’s been watching the calendar, waiting for you to turn eighteen? If so, do not return that call.”
“First, he’s in his fifties. Second, he’s gay. Third, he’s offering me a job teaching music.”
Nylah sighed. Deeply. “The fact he’s fifty doesn’t mean he wouldn’t hit on you, Luce. I’ll acceptgayas a potential disqualifier, but only if you’ve seen him with guys and he isn’t just saying that to put female students at ease. And private music lessons?” She snorted. “It’s not his flute you’ll be blowing.”
I shook my head as I sat at our tiny table. “Music lessons forchildren. Their parents have a beach house in the Hamptons, and I’d be there for the summer, teaching music while looking after the kids.”
“Mary Poppins of the Hamptons? Not too shabby. So why the frowny-face when I came in?”
“Mr. Moore said I’d be working for ‘Colt Gordon.’ He repeated it three times like it was a big deal. Is that a person? A company?”
“C-Colt Gordon?” Nylah stammered. “TheColt Gordon?”
“You sound an awful lot like Mr. Moore. The name sounds familiar but…?”
“The President’s Wife?Fatal Retributionone, two and three?”
“Oh, he’s an actor, right?”
