Page 48 of Every Step She Takes
Sources at the hotel say Callahan and Isabella Morales argued yesterday during their afternoon meeting.
What? No. Isabella had met me with kindness and sent me off with a hug. There may have been tense moments, but even someone with their ear pressed to the door couldn’t accuse us of arguing.
Why the hell didn’t I test that recording? Why didn’t I make sure it worked? Well, maybe because I’m a music teacher, not a secret agent.
I force back the seething regret and read on.
Police believe Callahan returned in the early hours of the morning to confront Isabella Morales. Hotel staff confirm she was seen exiting the hotel shortly before five a.m. She then returned at 6:45. It’s believed she returned to remove evidence, most likely Isabella Morales’s cell phone, which is missing from the scene.
Returned and exited hours earlier? Staff canconfirmit? Impossible.
But the rest… Iwasat the hotel at 6:45 – that’s a matter of record. I thought that would help prove my case. Who returns to a murder scene hours later?
Someone who forgot something.
Like a cell phone.
The phone Ididtake.
I skim the rest of the article, which says that based on this and additional evidence, police have a warrant out for my arrest. Below that is a photograph. I look at it and blink.
The woman wears a pressed white Oxford blouse, slim-fitting black jeans and black ankle boots, with a chunky necklace and big-buckled belt. Her hair swings and she’s just removed her sunglasses. A woman on a mission, her mouth set in a firm line, as if daring someone to get in her way.
It’s me. A photo taken by hotel security cameras. Yet for a moment, I don’t recognize myself. It’s the expression. It isn’t resting bitch face. It’s full-on active bitch face, and it’s as foreign to me as my expression in that hot-tub shot.
We’re accustomed to seeing ourselves in a very select number of poses – smiling for photos, or caught off guard for a photograph but still alert and calm. This hotel photo shows a side of me I don’t see. I wasn’t angry. Not even annoyed. I was steeling myself to see Isabella again. Yet I look ready to mow down anyone in my path.
I look like a bitch.
I look like a woman who could kill.
I glance up to see a fifty-something man across the road, frowning down at his phone. He looks up at me. Back at his phone.
My heart stops. He’s reading about me. CNR might get exclusive firsthand knowledge, but that won’t keep others from reposting their article, linking to it, sharing it on Twitter and Facebook…
The man looks up again. He smiles. There’s no fear or trepidation in that smile. It’s interest mixed with hesitant flirtation.
He’s not reading anything online about me. He glanced up from his phone to see a younger woman looking straight at him. Then he returned to his phone, only to look up and find her still watching him. He thinks I’m checking him out. I could almost laugh at that.
I give the man a quick wave with an embarrassed smile and shrug, which I hope conveys the message that I mistook him for someone else. I turn… and there’s a woman about my age, staring at me. Showing her phone to her companion, whose gaze rises to meet mine, her face slack with horrified recognition.
I turn on my heel, stride around the corner and duck into the first building I see. It’s a housewares store. I move quickly down aisles of specialty peelers and designer juicers until I’m at the back with a view through the front window. The women do not walk past. Of course they don’t – they just spotted a murderer. They’re calling 911 on their phones right now, thirty seconds before posting #KillerSighting on Instagram.
I’d gone through hell in 2005, when social media wasn’t truly a thing. What would it be like now, in the age of Twitter and memes and hashtags? Even thinking of it, I have to bite my cheek to keep from throwing up on the housewares shop floor.
The store clerk is busy on the phone with a customer and didn’t see me come in. I slip past a curtain into the hall. There’s a door leading out the back. A sign reads Emergency Exit Only. Does that mean it’ll set off an alarm? Only one way to find out. I push down the handle. No sirens sound, but I’m already gone anyway, darting past trash and recycling bins.
I’m quick-marching along the side street when my phone rings. It’s Mom. I keep moving as I answer.
“I have someone,” she says.
“Oh, thank God,” I murmur. “It’s hit the Internet. Well, CNR, but it’s already spreading. My photo is out there along with the news that I’m wanted for Isabella’s murder.”
Mom has a few choice words for CNR. Epithets like “bottom feeders” and “terrible people.” After her G-rated tirade, she says, “I’m texting you the lawyer’s address. A friend from church recommended him. She said he’s one of the best criminal lawyers in New York City, and when I called, I left a message at the desk, but he phoned back two minutes later. He’d love to take your case, and he said I was absolutely right to tell you not to turn yourself in. You’ll do that with him.”
“Perfect,” I say as I read her text with the address.
“He’s expecting you at his office. He asked if you’d like a car to pick you up.”
