Colt arrived in New York yesterday. Tiana was rumored to be picking up her brother yesterday from rehab, but she was spotted having dinner last night with her father, and there was no sign of Jamison. Lots of speculation there, everything from “he had a relapse, and he’s in emergency detox” to “he attempted suicide, and he’s in hospital.”
Guilt and grief wash over me. Yet there’s no way Tiana would be seen having dinner out with her dad if her brother was in the hospital. If she’s not with him, there’s a reason. I just don’t know what it is.
I start to dig deeper and then stop. Where is this getting me? I can tell myself I’m hoping to find a clue that will help my case, but really, I’m just checking up on Tiana and Jamison, worrying about them.
What might help me is finding Isabella’s mystery lover. I know he was in New York the night she died, which makes him a suspect, but I can find nothing online suggesting Isabella had a lover. Part of the issue is keywords. No matter how I phrase it, I end up with references to my fourteen-year-old scandal and Colt’s alleged subsequent affairs.
I call the mystery lover’s phone number again. Voice mail picks up immediately. I could text him, but I’m not sure what I’d say. I’m not even sure what I’d have said if he answered my call.
Frustration buzzes through me. My only lead is this dead end. Getting more will have to wait until I’m ready to share Isabella’s secret with PCTracy.
When I consider reneging on my decision to not tell him, I realize, to my shame, that I’m looking for an excuse to talk to him. I’m unsettled, and he settles me, and that’s a weird and uncomfortable thing to say.
I’m staring at my phone when he messages, as if he sensed me debating.
PCTracy:Just checking in. Everything okay?
LlamaGirl:All good. Found a spot to hang out and do some research.
PCTracy:Anything?
LlamaGirl:Nope. Just busywork. I am not a PI.
PCTracy:Well, I am, and it’s still slow going. I might have something, but I need to check a few things first.
LlamaGirl:Tease.
As soon as I hit Send on that, I deliver a mental head smack. He responds with a simple “LOL. Sorry.” and then I feel silly for worrying that it sounded flirtatious.
PCTracy:Soon, I promise. But you’re okay? Need anything?
LlamaGirl:Work. I’m running in circles. Is there something I can do? Something I can research for you? I feel useless.
PCTracy:I understand. Right now, there’s nothing, but if I have anything, I will let you know.
LlamaGirl:Thank you. In the meantime, I have to contact my mom and a friend. Is it safe to do that on a prepaid?
PCTracy:No, sorry. If they monitor your mom’s calls, an NYC prepaid cell number would be a giveaway. They could get your location from the GPS.
LlamaGirl:Right. Duh. Stick to pay phones, then?
PCTracy:You found one? Are you sure you’re not a detective?
LlamaGirl:I saw one downstairs by the restrooms. Otherwise, yeah, they are in short supply.
PCTracy:Use that for now. I have an idea for options that might be more convenient. I’ll investigate and let you know.
I work in the library for another hour. Then I head down to the pay phone. I call Nylah first. As I hoped, the police haven’t reached out to her yet. I give her a quick update. Basically,I’m fine. I didn’t do it, but I’m afraid to turn myself in after my scandal experience, so I’m giving the police time to realize they’ve made a horrible mistake.All true, and also all things she can tell the police if they contact her. Nylah wants more, of course. What was I doing in New York? What happened? How can she help?
I answer the first two honestly. For the third, I pretend I’m fine and everything’s under control. I stop myself before reassuring her that I have professional help. I need to protect everyone. Protect Nylah and my mom from keeping secrets. Protect PCTracy from getting in trouble for aiding a fugitive.
I insist that Nylah tells the police everything if they do get in touch.
“Can I tell them that they’re idiots, too?” she says. “That they should have been there for you ten years ago when you were stabbed in an alley? That if they think you’d kill Isabella Morales, they need a brain transplant?”
“That seems unwise.”
She snorts. “Too bad. I’ll tell them anyway.” Her voice lowers. “Youareokay, right, Luce?”
