Page 83 of Every Step She Takes
Me:You don’t think it’s me.
Tiana:Of course it’s you, Lucy. Why would anyone contact me from an unknown number pretending to be Lucy Callahan? That’s just silly.
Tiana:I don’t know who you are, but this is harassment.
Me:1984.
No response.
Me:That’s the book you were reading when I met you. You were sitting by the pool reading 1984 while Jamie swam. He wouldn’t take his swim shirt from your mom, so I jumped in, fully clothed, and gave it to him.
Silence. Dead silence. She’s shut off her messages. I’m sure of it. Shut me down and is about to block this number. Then:
Tiana:You took my mother’s phone. That’s where you got my number.
Me:I didn’t kill her. I swear it.
Tiana:And you know what, Genevieve? I don’t actually care. My mother is dead. Yes, she was murdered, but right now, all I care about is the part where she’s DEAD.
Me:I’m sorry.
I get that two-word profanity again.
Me:I deserve that. And you’re right. I shouldn’t be contacting you. I won’t reach out again. If you want to talk to me – if you want to know what happened that night – you can email me.
I give my new email address. She doesn’t answer. I stare at the phone for twenty minutes. Then I pocket it and move on.
Chapter Thirty-One
I need to do something new with my hair. I spend twenty minutes in a family restroom with a bottle of shampoo, removing the temporary dye. I feel bad taking up space that someone with a baby may need, but it’s still early, and I didn’t see anyone outside with a child. I manage to wash about half the dye out, leaving my hair auburn. Then I stare in the mirror.
Does that help?
Not really.
I should cut it, but I’m not sure that would help, either. It’s the obvious direction to go – like a fugitive shaving off his beard. What I really need is a wig. I know how to wear them from my filmmaking-camp days. The problem is getting one without someone taking a closer look and realizing why I’m wig shopping.
I make another risky decision. I suppose my interaction with Tiana should have quashed that urge, but actually, she responded exactly as I expected. Honest and mature. She did not, however, rail at me, or accuse me or even threaten to report our chat to the police. So I take another chance. I open the messaging app and ping PCTracy.
LlamaGirl:I need a wig.
A reply comes in less than sixty seconds.
PCTracy:Absolutely. That’s a good idea. I’m presuming you’d like me to buy it, which is also wise.
Before I can reply, he continues:
PCTracy:It should be longer than your hair is now. Significantly longer. Dark blond. Too light won’t suit you. A long dark blond wig.
LlamaGirl:Given this some thought, have you?
PCTracy:I’ve been coming up with a list of things we can do better.
LlamaGirl:Like not tracking me without my permission?
It’s a low blow, but I have to say it. Then I add.
LlamaGirl:And don’t apologize again. I just want to move forward with an understanding that you will not track me.
