“Detective Kotnik got my statement,” I continue. “I was just waiting to let her know I’ll be at my hotel if she has questions, but there’s obviously an issue up there, and she’s going to be a while.”
He nods absently, his attention slingshotting back to the argument.
“She has my contact information,” I say.
Another nod. And with that, I’m free. Kotnik does have my contact information, and if that doesn’t include my hotel name, well, she can remedy that oversight with a bit of digging. It’ll give me the time I need to come up with a plan.
I pause at the door, listening to Tiana above. Then I’m gone.
Chapter Sixteen
Isabella is dead, and I don’t know how to process that, so I focus on taking action instead. Once again Isabella’s phone is nestled in my pocket, and as soon as I reach the alley, I flip out the SIM card, snap it in two and stick that into my pocket. On the next street, I drop the broken SIM into a sewer grate. I know far too much about covering my tracks.
This isn’t the same, though. I only discard the SIM so the phone can’t be traced to me. I should just drop the whole thing down the sewer. I don’t because my gut says I need to see who spoke to her last night.
Who do you think you are? Miss Marple?
No, but if the situation dives south, it’ll help to know what else was going on in Isabella’s life. It’ll make me feel more in control, which I need right now.
I want to handle this on my own, quickly and efficiently clearing my name before anyone knows I’m connected to Isabella’s murder. Is that even possible? I shiver just thinking about it.
It’s happening again.
I’m going to be in the papers again.
My life will be ruined again.
The last snaps me out of it. My life ruined? What about Isabella, dead on a bathroom floor?
I can handle this. First, I need to notify my mother, who will understand the significance the moment she hears that Isabella is dead. When I call, I only intend to warn her. Instead, the sound of her voice unleashes all the panic and fear and grief and shock, and I have to veer into a building alcove before I break down sobbing in the street.
I don’t tell my mother that I found Isabella’s body. I can’t tell her anything that could make her an accomplice.
Accomplice? You didn’t kill anyone.
An accomplice to my lie. To what I’m sure is a criminal offense.
The full reality of that hits me.
I have interfered with a murder investigation. I have committed a crime.
Whatever I’ve done, I won’t compound it by confessing to my mother. Nor do I lie. I just say that Isabella summoned me to breakfast, and now she’s dead, and it wasn’t Isabella who sent those messages. Someone’s setting me up.
As I finish, I head back to the road, my eyes dry again.
“So now I’m heading to my hotel,” I say. “I’m not certain the detective dismissed me. I just needed to get out of there and clear my head. I’ll wait for them at my hotel.”
“You can’t speak to the police again without a lawyer.”
“I’m a witness, not a suspect.”
“You’re being set up, Lucy. You need a lawyer. Now.”
Her voice is firm, and let’s be honest, despite my objections, Iamworried. I’m scared, too. Every time I say I did nothing wrong, a voice whispers that it didn’t matter before. This isn’t the same thing – I was tried in the court of public opinion last time, and that bitch is stone cold – but that voice still whispers.
I may be innocent, but I am not naive. I will never be naive again.
“I’m going to my hotel,” I say. “I’ll make some calls and find a lawyer.”
