Page 30 of Every Step She Takes
Me:Of course.
I respond before I have time to consider. I still have one eye on that article, skimming it as tears brim.
What did you expect, Lucy? Didn’t you just say he was sensitive, easily hurt? You befriended him, and he confided in you, and then you left, slicing a cleaver through his family as you went.
I tell Isabella I’m on my way, and she says to come straight up, and she’ll have breakfast waiting.
I shower and dress as quickly as I can. As I’m roaring out the door, I catch sight of the bedside clock. It’s 6:15. Will I get back before nine?
I send Marco a quick text saying I might call a bit late. Then I’m off.
For 6:45 a.m., Isabella’s hotel is remarkably busy. People who flew in Sunday night for Monday-morning meetings are now hurrying off to grab breakfast. I slip inside, and I’m on the elevator before I wonder whether I’ll need a card to access the penthouse. I don’t.
When I reach Isabella’s door, it’s not quite shut, as if someone dropped off breakfast and forgot to pull it closed. That gives me pause, and my skin prickles as I remember another door left ajar just a few days ago. But there’d been an explanation for that one, and there will be for this one, too.
I ring the bell. Wait. Ring again and add a knock for good measure. When she still doesn’t answer, I press my fingers to the door and push it open an inch.
“Isabella?” I call.
Music plays upstairs, and I raise my voice, but I’m still not sure she’d hear.
I send a text.
Me:The door’s open. I’m coming in.
She doesn’t respond, and I push the door and slide through.
“Isabella?” I call.
Still no answer. I walk into the living area. There’s no sign of breakfast.
I stop at the bottom of the spiral stairs leading to the second floor.
“Isabella? I’ll just wait down here, okay?”
No answer. I check my phone. No reply to my text, either.
I call Isabella’s number… and her phone rings right beside me. It’s been left on the sofa. Well, that’s not going to help.
I climb the stairs slowly, still calling her name. When I reach the top, I follow the music to the open bedroom door.
“Isabella?”
Nothing.
I peek through to see an unmade bed.
I pause as I remember all the times I’d walked past Isabella’s open bedroom door to see her making her bed the moment she rose. A habit from her grandmother, she once said. So that bed snags my attention, but at fifty, she probably no longer feels quite so compelled to heed her grandmother’s rules.
As I step back, I spot a slipper protruding from behind the bed, and I have to smile. It’s a ridiculous novelty slipper – a giant bear paw, complete with claws. My mind trips back fourteen years to Isabella walking into the kitchen wearing them.
You like my footwear?she said with a laugh.The kids got us themed slippers last year. Princess ones for me, and these for Colt. Beauty and Beast. He never wears his, so I stole them. Which one I’m wearing is a hint to my mood.She winked at me.These mean I’m preparing for a call with the studio execs, and I’m summoning my inner Beast.
That’s when I see the angle of the slipper. It hasn’t just been cast off. There’s a sliver of leg visible above it.
“Isabella!” I tear around the bed to find her supine on the floor, her head against the base of the bedroom Jacuzzi. Blood haloes her dark hair, and there’s a deep gash on her forehead.
I fall beside her and grab her shoulder.
