A woman knocks and calls, “Ms. Morales?” and as she does, I creep into the closet and ease the slider almost shut.
Footsteps sound.
“Ms. Morales?” a woman calls tentatively. “I am sorry to bother you, but we received a call that you were in trouble. I have brought security.”
Someone reported a problem? How? I haven’t made any noise.
No one heard anything, you idiot. You’re here. That’s what counts. You’re here, and whoever killed Isabella knows it. Now you’re about to be caught hiding in the damn closet. Are you trying tohelpthe killer frame you?
Two people enter, one set of light footsteps and another heavier, presumably the security guard and the staff member who brought him. They whisper right outside the closet, and I hold my breath. All I see is the front door, pushed against the closet. Then that closes with a whoosh as they decide the woman should lead the way in case Ms. Morales is still in bed. The guard will follow right behind.
As they head inside, I check my phone to see that my final text to Isabella – telling her I’m here – has been read.
Isabella’s killer is in this suite. They picked up Isabella’s phone downstairs while I was in her bedroom, and they read my message–
No, that’s not possible. When I picked up Isabella’s phone, my text showed as a new notification. Someone read it while I had her phone in my hand.
I’m about to say that’s impossible when I remember one of my music students getting texts on her watch. I’d marveled at the technology, and she’d teased that I was showing my age. She’d shown me how messages from her phone appeared on both her watch and her tablet, and they could be answered from any of the three.
I stuff Isabella’s phone into my purse as the stairs creak. I peer through the cracked-open closet door just as the security guard’s pant legs disappear up the stairs.
Now’s your chance. You have about twenty seconds between them finding the body and calling for help.
Run, Lucy.
I take a deep breath.
I will not run. I haven’t done anything wrong. I was lured here, and I can prove it. I just can’t afford to be found in this damn closet. Or found with Isabella’s cell phone.
I consider my options and decide it’s best not to be found in her room at all. Pretend I just arrived after receiving those texts.
I slip off my ankle boots and ease open the door. Footsteps overhead walk into the master bedroom. I brace for a scream. Instead, there’s a gasp and then:
“Ms. Morales!” The man says.
“Is she–?”
“Call–”
I don’t hear the last. I’m already out the door. I fly past the elevator, following the emergency-exit signs to the stairwell.
Twenty flights of stairs. They’re empty, and as I zoom down, I wipe off Isabella’s phone.
I have to pause at the bottom to catch my breath and pull on my boots. Then I take out my phone. However bad this might look, I have proof that yesterday’s talk with Isabella wasn’t a heated argument. Proof that we’d parted on good terms, as supported by my texts.
I take out the phone and flip to the recording. I put it to my ear and press Play and…
I hear voices. Muffled and indistinct voices. I turn up the volume, and the distortion only comes louder as my eyes round in horror.
The phone didn’t pick up the conversation through my purse. I never checked that it would work. I’d just blithely hit Record and left it in my purse, pleased with myself for being clever.
Not clever at all.
I don’t have a recording of our conversation, just voices so muffled I can’t even tell who’s who.
Deep breath.
I didn’t kill Isabella, and that’s what counts.
