Page 72 of Every Step She Takes
PCTracy:I don’t think there’s significant danger in you staying free a bit longer. Could it harm your case? No more than it already has, to be blunt. But clearly, we’d argue that you were frightened.
Frightened. I think of what just happened in that alley. PCTracy says there’s no significant danger in me staying free, but he’s speaking from a legal perspective. He doesn’t know what happened a few minutes ago.
Except I don’t really know what happened, either. Was I attacked for being Lucy Callahan? Or just the victim of big-city violence?
PCTracy:If you do turn yourself in, I can keep working on your behalf. There’s also an advantage, though, to me having full-time access to you. And to you assisting in your own investigation, which you seem willing to do.
LlamaGirl:Absolutely. I’m not looking for a white knight here.
PCTracy:I know. My advice then is to give me twenty-four hours. If you want to turn yourself in then, I’ll guide you through it.
LlamaGirl:Shouldn’t I have a lawyer for that?
PCTracy:You should, and I will make sure you do.
Because he is Thompson. Or works for him. The more we talk, the more certain I am that I don’t need to find a lawyer. I already have. I just need to be sure I can trust him.
LlamaGirl:Fair enough. What are my restrictions, though? I just got caught buying lunch. Can I go back to my hotel and get my things?
PCTracy:If you don’t need your belongings, skip it.
LlamaGirl:I need them.
PCTracy:Okay. You’ll have to find a new place to stay, though. Do you trust me enough to arrange that for you?
LlamaGirl:No. Sorry.
PCTracy:Don’t apologize. The problem, though, is that I presume you’re paying cash and not showing ID. Even at the seediest hotels, you’re calling attention to yourself. I can book you a room and leave the key where you can find it.
LlamaGirl:Not yet.
PCTracy:The alternative would be finding a place to spend the night out-of-doors. A park or such. That would be far from comfortable.
LlamaGirl:That’s fine.
PCTracy:Let’s talk specifics, then.
After I fetch my belongings, I stop at a library. I’m not even sure which one. It’s a big branch, quiet on a Tuesday afternoon. I find a study carrel and log onto the Internet. PCTracy has asked me to give him twenty-four hours, and I’m giving myself the same. Twenty-four hours to make headway, or I am turning myself in.
Making headway means diving into the Internet cesspool again. Even thinking about it makes me shy away like a spooked horse. No, that analogy puts a pretty gloss on the truth. I’m not merely skittish about seeing my life dragged through that muck. I am viscerally sick, physically and mentally. I want to be stronger than this, to tell myself that people have endured far greater trauma. Yet my body doesn’t care for distinctions. This feels like trauma, slashing open life-threatening wounds that had finally begun to heal.
I can tell myself that words can’t hurt me. I can tell myself I will survive this. Whatever happens, I will rebuild my life again.
None of that matters, though, when I feel as if I’m watching it all burn to cinders around me, and every time I try to throw water on the flames, I douse them in gasoline instead.
So here I go, wading in, water hose in hand. Again, I find myself grudgingly relying on the entertainment tabloids. I focus on the Morales-Gordon clan and quickly discover that I’m not the only one being burned at the stake in a public spectacle.
They’ve zeroed in on Jamison. In and out of rehab since he was seventeen. Two suicide attempts. A “beautiful wreck of a boy” with “deep-rooted psychological issues” that can stem from the trauma of his beloved nanny turning into a Lolita hell-bent on destroying his family.
Then there’s Tiana. A young woman who spurned the family business and got her master’s in political science and became an activist. In the words of one right-wing publication, she’s a professional shit-disturber, a whiny millennial malcontent. Ultraconservative blogs make a big deal of her sexual orientation, too, snarking that for someone like Tiana, being gay is a career requirement. Others speculate that her experience with me and her father “turned her gay.”
Next up is Colt. After the scandal, a couple of his past lovers talked to the media. There are whispers of him being seen at sex parties. Also a paternity claim from a nineteen year-old ingenue.
Nineteen, Colt? Jesus. You learned nothing, did you?
Then there’s Isabella. No one has a bad thing to say about her… which is exactly the ammunition they use against her. Poor, long-suffering Isabella. Gave up her career for her man. Stuck by him when he screwed around with the nanny. Pathetic, really. Isabella may be the Madonna in our drama, the faithful Penelope to my seductress Circe, but that doesn’t win her anything except contempt.
I dig for rumors of Isabella’s potential lover. Of course, any search on her name fills the page with news of her death. Even as I try to filter out keywords, I find myself reading the most up-to-date stories on her murder.
