Page 62 of Every Step She Takes
I apologize for the misunderstanding earlier today. Your mother was kind enough to give me your email address when I explained the situation. I truly believe I am your best chance of avoiding these outrageous charges. Please allow me to prove that to you.
I let out a stream of profanity that makes a passing woman veer away. I call a soft, “Sorry!” but she only walks faster.
I channel my anger into a very brief response. Only two words, initialsFandO.
Before I can disconnect, Thompson responds with:
LOL. Okay, I deserved that. Since we’re being a little more casual in our correspondence: I screwed up. Give me another shot. No bullshit this time.
I linger over this glimpse of the guy behind that billboard-ready smile. The snake-oil salesman who’s willing to admit he sells snake oil. The question, of course, is whether he actually has any product worth buying… or just another bottle of mineral oil laced with fragrant herbs.
You got me, ma’am. I can tell you’re a discerning customer. I usually keep this under the counter, but for you… Wink-wink. Here’s the real stuff.
I’m about to close my email when he sends another one.
There’s absolutely no point in me taking on a case I don’t think I can win. It’s like a minor-league pitcher trick-balling a scout. It might pay off in the short term, but they’re going to figure it out, and then you’re out of a job. If you’re concerned about my ability to represent you:
A list of links follows. I click the first. It takes me to a first-degree murder case Thompson successfully defended. The next is the same. I don’t bother with the rest. He’s a good lawyer. He just isn’t above lowball tactics to bolster his career… even at his clients’ expense.
I send back a politer response.
I’m sorry, but no. I need someone I can trust. I can’t give three strikes on that.
A reply comes moments later.
Understood. But I’m not convinced it’s batter out just yet. I won’t bother you again, but I am still here if you need me. You have my work number. Here’s my private one. This is also a private email address, should you have any questions. I believe I owe you that much.
I send back a thank you and log off.
Sleep is a bullet train to hell. That night, I am arrested five times and murdered twice. And once I do the murdering – I’m in Isabella’s room, with her begging for her life as I rant about how she ruined my life before I smash her head into the tiled step.
I wake from that, gasping and clawing at the sheets. The smell of mildew hits, and I shove the sheets away, only to catch other scents, ones I’d been too preoccupied to notice earlier. The stink hits me, throwing me back through memories to another hotel room, another time waking from nightmares…
Chapter Twenty-Four
Albany 2005
I lay in bed and cried, shaking and shivering as a winter blast battered the thin motel-room window. I’d been dreaming. It had started as the most perfect dream. I’d woken in Isabella and Colt’s beach house, the kids bouncing on my bed, telling me to get up and come for a swim. They’d be leaving later that day, with a car taking me back to New York City.
Isabella appeared in the doorway, shooing the kids out and asking whether I’d have breakfast with her so we could discuss next year. She also wanted to chat about her new show and the possibility of me looking over scripts in case, you know, I ever wanted to try my hand at working in a writing room.
It was just the three of us in the house. Colt was gone, and I was glad of it. I couldn’t quite remember why, only that I was relieved he’d left for the West Coast already.
In the dream, I’d pushed back the covers, to be hit by the scent of mildew, which stopped me short. The beach-house sheets always smelled of fresh linen and coconut oil.
That’s when I woke in the motel room, and I’d scrambled out of bed, tripping, and fell face-first onto the carpet, into the stench of stale beer.
This wasn’t my room at the beach house.
This wasn’t my room at Juilliard.
This wasn’t my room at home.
It all rushed back as I struggled to my feet and found the bedroom lamp. I turned it on and looked around the cheap motel room. Then I crawled back into bed, sitting up, arms around my knees, and I started to cry.
It was November, and I should have been at Juilliard. I’d planned to go back. Well, more like Mom planned to make sure I went back. Then we got a letter suggesting I might want to take a term off to rest.
Rest? No. The letter contained enough vague “suggestions” that it was clear they didn’t want me back. My notoriety would be too distracting for the other students. Mom was furious. I told myself I didn’t disagree with the school – I’d hate to interfere with my fellow students’ studies – but really, I just appreciated the excuse to keep hiding at home.
