Page 74 of Every Step She Takes
“I didn’t do it.”
“Stop saying that. Of course you didn’t. But you’re on the run and… you aren’t exactly fugitive material.”
“I’ve spent fourteen years running from something I didn’t do. That’s gotta count for something.”
She goes quiet. Before I can speak, she says, “I hate this, Luce. You don’t deserve it. No one would, but you least of all.”
I assure her I’m fine, and we talk for a few more minutes before I sign off.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I call Mom. Our conversation is strained. She wants me to turn myself in with the help of “that Mr. Thompson.” I long to tell her that I suspect I’m already working with him, but I can’t say anything she’d need to keep from the police.
“I know there was a misunderstanding, Lucy,” she says. “He made a mistake. I really think you should give him a second chance. Have you heard from him?”
I hesitate. “Not since last night. I’m sure I will end up hiring him. Right now, I’m working a few things through and giving the police time to figure out they made a mistake.”
We talk more. I stick to the script I used with Nylah. No mention of PCTracy. No mention of what I’m doing or where I’ve been or what my plans are. Nothing Mom would hesitate to tell the police. I finish the call, and then I head out.
I’ll be spending the night in Central Park. That’s not as easy as it once was. The park is closed from 1 a.m. to 6, when it’s patrolled by park police, who’ll roust and fine trespassers. If I’m caught, well, then I guess I’ll turn myself in.
The Ramble is the obvious place to sleep. It’s a forest within the park, thickly wooded, with plenty of hidey-holes. It also has a reputation for being the most dangerous spot after dark, and while it’s much safer than it was twenty years ago, I’m not taking that chance.
While power walking, I survey possibilities and choose a place near Belvedere Castle, where I can sleep along the back of a building, tucked into the shadows, dressed in dark clothing.
It’s still not late enough to take up position, so I find a hidden place and work. I’m all set with a newly purchased notebook and pen. No more aimlessly wandering the Internet. It’s time to get organized.
First, I build a timeline.
Sunday, 3p.m. – 4:15p.m.: visit Isabella
5:02p.m.: text Isabella to agree to meet for lunch Monday. Head back to hotel after that, and stay in my room until morning.
Note: Can they confirm my comings and goings with keycard access? My door didn’t open after turndown service. Check this with PCTracy.
Monday 5:53a.m.: first text from Isabella
6:15a.m.: leave hotel and walk to Isabella’s
6:45a.m.: arrive at hotel
7:05a.m.: staff enters hotel room
7:20a.m.: talking to security guard before police arrive
I’m pleased at myself for thinking of the keycard question. Yet deep down, I know that, while this would be the exonerating evidence in a TV legal drama, it won’t be enough to prove my innocence.
On the park Wi-Fi, I search for time of death and end up on a website that tells me, firmly but gently, just how inexact a science “time of death” is. It’ll be a time frame of hours, not minutes. Helpful if you’re trying to decide whether a victim died on a Monday or a Tuesday. Not so helpful if the critical question is whether she died at 5 a.m., 6 or 7.
Next, I map out Isabella’s timeline. No one has reported her receiving visitors to her room. Would the hotel know? I suspect not. While cameras place me in the lobby, none report me in the elevators or the stairwell or on the penthouse floor, which I suspect means the old building doesn’t have cameras beyond that lobby.
So the killer arrives. He or she goes straight up to the penthouse, and Isabella lets them inside. They fight, and she dies. That seems the most likely explanation, but I can’t rule out premeditated murder.
Who would want Isabella dead? I list my suspects, their motivations and alibis and start with the easiest: Isabella’s children.
Jamison. In rehab out of state. There’s a check-up text from his mom Sunday evening and then a phone call. No sign of trouble between them. No sign that he knew I was even in New York.
Tiana. In New York. Knew I had visited Isabella. Knew I would return for lunch. Motivation for murder? None.
