Page 35 of Every Step She Takes
“Give me your card, and I’ll have someone get back to you.”
“Thank you. I don’t have a card, but I’ll jot down my name and number.”
I writeGenevieve Callahanand my cell number on a scrap of paper. As I pass it over, I add, “Isabella calls me Lucy, but Genevieve is my legal name.” I don’t want anyone claiming I tried to hide my identity, but nor do I want to write “Lucy Callahan” on anything involved with Isabella.
As he pockets the scrap, the elevator doors open, and he catches my arm again, using the excuse to pull me aside, though by now I’m ten feet from the elevator.
“Are you sure you’re not an actress?” he says. “I feel like I’ve seen you before.”
“Excuse me,” says a voice over my shoulder. I turn to see a woman about my age, wearing a suit. I think she’s with the hotel… until I spot the two uniformed officers behind her. My gaze drops to her detective’s badge.
“Is something…?” I swing on the security guard. “Is Isabella okay?”
“Do you work here?” the detective says brusquely to the guard.
He straightens. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Then you’re supposed to be guarding this floor. It’s a crime scene, and the media is going to descend at any moment…” A pointed look at me. “If it hasn’t already.”
“Cr-crime scene?” I say, my voice rising.
“She’s not a reporter,” the guard interjects. “She knows Ms. Morales. She was here for breakfast with the lady.”
And with that, my chance to escape evaporates. Which is fine. I have to do this sooner or later.
The detective tells me that Isabella is dead, apparently from a slip and fall, and I pretend I just found out. I’m shocked, and… Oh, my god, was she in the bathroom? Showering for our breakfast? Maybe if I’d gone inside, I could have saved her.
I hate myself for my performance. Earlier, I’d thought this would be easy. A small lie. One little omission.
Yes, I came to the hotel. Yes, I went to Isabella’s suite. But I didn’t find her body.
It’s not simple. I have to dredge up every film-camp acting lesson. Even then, I stand outside myself, critiquing.
You don’t seem shocked enough to have just heard the news.
You seem too shocked for someone who already saw the EMT go into the suite.
You don’t seem upset enough for having just found out an old friend is dead.
You seem too upset over someone you haven’t seen in years.
Once I’m past my “Oh, my God, Isabella is dead” performance, the woman – Detective Kotnik – leads me into the suite, where she can speak to me in relative privacy.
I tell her everything, and I show her the texts. Those definitely catch her attention. Whatever the EMTs have said about possible time of death, she knows it’s significant that I received these barely an hour ago.
That’s when she sends one of the officers to look for Isabella’s phone, and my moment of panic turns to one of relief. It may be a good thing they won’t find it here. It’ll look as if Isabella’s killer took her phone to lure me in.
Detective Kotnik says nothing about the possibility that Isabella isn’t the one who contacted me. I don’t, either. I remind myself that if I hadn’t seen Isabella’s body, I’d be confused and concerned – and maybe a little curious – so I regularly glance toward the second floor, where the EMTs and Kotnik’s partner work.
Kotnik takes my statement. When she asks what I was talking to Isabella about, I say it was a mix of personal and business, which is not untrue. I knew Isabella years ago, and we were catching up, and she had a business proposition for me. I’d initially turned her down, but I’d agreed to think it over last night and meet for lunch. I show the texts to support my story. I don’t use the name Lucy, but I show my passport for ID, and Lucille is there as my middle name, which is good enough. I’m not hiding anything. Well, not hiding much, at least.
We’re going through my statement again when Kotnik’s partner calls her upstairs. She lifts a finger for me to wait.
As she leaves, I exhale. I’ve played it cool, even if my stomach hasn’t stopped twisting the entire time.
The moment I saw Isabella on the floor, I should have summoned help. When the hotel staff arrived, I lost that chance.
No, I had that chance stolen from me. Intentionally. Whoever sent those texts was waiting for me, and I helpfully signaled my arrival by texting Isabella that I was coming in. Her killer gave me just enough time to be discovered with the body.
