Page 61 of Every Step She Takes
Looking for a tour guide? How about this guy?
Now that picture has been stolen and plunked onto an article identifying Marco as the “longtime lover” of the notorious Lucy Callahan. As I read, my stomach drops. Representatives from Romulus Tours confirm they are “reevaluating” his employment, as is the bike-courier service he works for. The tabloid is looking for anyone associated with Marco, particularly past girlfriends. There’s a video, too. They caught Marco coming home. The reporter asks for a statement, and when Marco turns to the camera, his gaze is colder than I’ve ever seen it.
“No comment.”
He says it in Italian and then English and then slams the door in the reporter’s face. I rewind and freeze on Marco’s face in that moment before he responds, and my eyes fill with tears.
Marco got his own personal glimpse of hell today. A peek into a world where he could lose his job, his credibility, his self-respect and his privacy. All because his girlfriend apparently played him for a fool.
He had no idea who I was, and now he’s being cast as the hot-but-dumb-as-dirt lover of a scheming murderess. He could pretend he knew all along and suffer for that. He could also play to type and admit his ignorance, but there is nothing worse for Marco than being dismissed as an empty-headed pretty boy.
Tears well as I touch his face on the screen.
I’m sorry, Marco. I am so, so sorry.
He called me this morning. Tried desperately to get in touch with me, and I couldn’t even bother sending a “Talk later.”
I shouldn’t have let myself get too distracted to reply. I should have emailed as soon as I realized I couldn’t call him. He has no way of knowing that I desperately wanted to get in touch. All he knows is that I didn’t.
I open my email to send something. Instead, I find a message from him, and my breath catches.
Gen,
I know what’s happening over there. We need to talk. Give me a # where I can reach you. Please.
xx Marco
I stare at that email, and I can barely breathe. I blink, as if I’m seeing wrong. I reread, as if I’ve misunderstood. I even check the address, as if it might be a prank. It isn’t. Marco is confused, but he wants to talk. He hasn’t slammed the door. I have not completely lost him.
That’s when I see the time stamp. Four hours ago. After the initial videographer, but before everything went to hell, his life exposed online.
Would you still send those kisses, Marco?
I want to believe the answer is yes while recognizing I’m probably delusional. Still, I respond to the email.
Marco,
I’m sorry. That seems weak and trite. I wish I could be there, wish I could find the right words or at least let you see just how sorry I am.
I should have told you the truth. I can defend myself and say that I never lied to you – that we don’t discuss our pasts – but that’s an excuse. When Isabella summoned me to NYC, I should have told you everything. I planned to earlier today and then… Well, then Isabella called me to switch our lunch to breakfast, and I learned of her death.
I’m being framed. Maybe I’m naive, but I don’t honestly think I’d go to prison. I just need to figure things out before I turn myself in, and I pray it won’t even come to that, that they’ll find the real killer first.
I’m not hiding from the police as much as from the media. I can’t have those arrest photos in the news, Marco. I know too well that is a stain that never comes out. I think you’re getting a taste of that hell, and I am so, so sorry. All I can say is that I did not kill Isabella, and the truth will come out. I will fix this. For both of us.
For now, though, I can’t drag you into it. I don’t have my cell, so there’s no point calling or texting. You shouldn’t respond to this email, either. The less communication we have, the better it is for you. I will come home, and I will explain everything.
In the meantime, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
xx Gen
I hit Send and hurry from the laundromat.
I’m putting away my phone when I see that I received an email just as I was disconnecting the Wi-Fi. It’s a stub, nothing downloaded except my name and the subject line: “We need to talk.”
I can still reach the Wi-Fi signal, so I reconnect, my heart thudding. I’m certain it’s Marco. While the martyr in me wants to protect him, the real me will leap at any excuse to communicate. I open the email, and it’s from Daniel Thompson, the lawyer who was going to turn me in to the police.
LC,
