Page 41 of Every Step She Takes
“No.”
“Mom, I won’t run. I don’t need to.”
“I’m not suggesting you run. We need to take control of the narrative here, Lucy, the way we couldn’t the last time.”
Take control of the narrative.
I stifle a sound that is half laugh, half sob as Mom’s words echo Isabella’s from yesterday. She’d wanted to take control of our story, and I remember her eyes alight as she planned how to do that. Grief wells, but I have to tamp it down so I can focus on this.
“If you’re suggesting I talk to reporters first–” I begin.
“Absolutely not.” From her tone, you’d think I suggested summoning demons for help. “I read a case where a woman knew she was about to be arrested for murder, so she went to her lawyer, and they arranged to bring her in. You can do that. You were walking back to your hotel, and you called me, and I told you to get a lawyer. If I’m wrong, that’s on me. You can’t be blamed for listening to your mother.”
“I’m pretty sure that isn’t a legal defense.”
“On my advice, you are turning around now and going to a coffee shop. I will find you a lawyer, and you will speak to them, and they will arrange for you to turn yourself in – after they’ve heard your story and given you all the advice you need to proceed.” A pause. “How are you dressed?”
I tell her.
“Good,” she says. “You’ll look presentable and professional.”
“Unlike the last time, when I looked like a slovenly little slut.”
“GenevieveLucille.”
My eyes fill with tears as I force a smile. “Sorry, Mom. None of that. Yes, I’m dressed nicely, and I have my toiletries on me. I’ll fix my hair and makeup because there may be cameras. Like you said, control the narrative, which means control the visuals, too. This time, I will choose the image I present in the media.”
“Precisely.”
I’ve been in this coffee shop for an hour, and I’m already wishing I’d opted for water and bland oatmeal. Instead, I tried to cheer myself up with a cappuccino and something between a muffin and a croissant, filled with cherry custard. The caffeine swirls in my stomach while the pastry lies leaden at the bottom.
Mom hasn’t called back. I tell myself that’s fine. I tell myselfI’mfine. That’s a lie. I’m confused, and I’m scared. No, I’m terrified. This morning feels like an anvil over my head, waiting to drop and crush me.
I’ve hidden Isabella’s phone. I don’t want to walk into a lawyer’s office holding it, but I need to know where it is.
Seventy-five minutes after I talked to Mom, my phone rings. I go to grab it. Then I see Marco’s number.
Marco. Oh, my God, I forgot to call him. I’d been about to when I realized someone had been in my hotel room. I need to talk to him. Really need to. But I’m waiting for Mom’s call, and I’d rather be able to tell him I have a lawyer and everything is fine. Just get past that step, and then I’ll speak to him.
I force myself to hit Ignore. A moment later, a text appears.
Marco:I just got a very strange message. Call me back ASAP.
I’m sure it has nothing to do with me. Nothing to do with my situation.
That now-familiar refrain takes on an air of delusion, but this time, I must be right. It’s been three hours since the hotel discovered Isabella’s body. There is no way anyone has tracked down Marco.
Of course, I also told myself there was no way there could be a warrant out for my arrest already.
I stare at his message.
ASAP.
Isabella tracked me down using a private investigator. If that investigator did a halfway-decent job, they know about Marco. He must be warned.
I’m about to hit Call Back when my cell vibrates and Mom’s photo appears.
I fumble to answer with a “Hey” that I want to sound nonchalant, but it’s tight and high.
