Page 85 of Every Step She Takes
PCTracy:Suitable interference? Or still creepy?
LlamaGirl:Suitable interference. Thank you. You didn’t need to do that. And I certainly didn’t need a suite.
PCTracy:Free upgrade. I booked in person, and I tried to be charming in hopes of leaving a lasting impression. Apparently, I made a good one:)
LlamaGirl:Well, thank you.
PCTracy:Hope the food choices are okay, too. I went with relatively safe options. Eat. Rest. I’ll touch base in a couple of hours.
I set my phone down and survey the room-service cart. There are three covered trays, plus a carafe of coffee, a small bottle of red wine, a large bottle of sparkling water and a can of Diet Coke. Under the first tray I open, there are two desserts – crème brûlée and cheesecake. The second has a salad. The third a massive burger and mountain of fries.
PCTracy said he went with safe choices, and he did. They also happen to all be things I like. That could be coincidental… except for the drink choices. The wine is a Pinot Noir, which is my go-to choice if I can’t get a rustic Italian red. Diet Coke is my go-to for soda. Sparkling water over still? Yep.
With the drinks, there’s no doubt that this is Thompson – or his investigator – and they’ve been in touch with my mother.
When I wheel my luggage into the bedroom, I find clothing. A couple of T-shirts, a pair of sweatpants and a nightshirt, stacked under a note reading, in block letters, “No underwear. Sorry. I figured I was pushing creepy with the nightshirt.”
Beside the clothing there’s a folded brown bag. Inside, I find cookies and chocolates along with more water and soda and two paperback novels, one a thriller and one historical fiction.
Oh, yeah, he talked to my mother.
This is all incredibly considerate. Above and beyond, really, like the perfect host contemplating what a guest might need if she’s spending the next eighteen hours locked in a hotel room. It feels like an apology for last night, and while it wasn’t necessary, I do appreciate it.
However this goes, I’ll make sure PCTracy isn’t on the hook for expenses. And I’ll be sure to thank him when we talk in a few hours. Right now, though, I have a burger and fries waiting.
I eat. I drink. I nap. Then I skim the Internet for case updates, but there’s nothing new.
Next, I check for updates on my fugitive status. As expected, my sandwich-shop visit did not go unnoticed. According to a source, I’d been spotted by an eagle-eyed manager, who reported it, but the police took their sweet time showing up, and I fled in the meantime.
There are more sightings, all in places I’ve never been, including Miami, Sydney and Toronto. One person, though, reports spotting me near Central Park last night. He didn’t contact the police, fearing “repercussions.” After all, I’m a dangerous criminal.
That makes me laugh, and then, mood bolstered, I do something guaranteed to bring it down. I read tributes to Isabella. It’s penance, in a way, for texting Tiana earlier. She was completely right to call me on my insensitivity, and now as I read these memories of her mother, I am reminded myself that whatever personal issues I had with Isabella, I admired the hell out of her.
Tributes are, as they say, pouring in. Some are “wife of” remembrances – A-list actors and directors who only knew Isabella through Colt. I ignore those. I want the real ones, from people who knew her. I’m skimming a fan site dedicated to Isabella when I see an embedded video compilation of her acting career, and a name beneath it stops me short.
Justice Kane.
I smile. I cannot help it. I will always smile when a Justice Kane song comes on the radio. He is the one good memory from that night.
Seeing his name, I’m reminded that he’d been a friend of the Gordon-Morales clan. Apparently, he’d reached out to this Isabella Morales fan site and asked whether they wanted to use one of his songs for their commemorative video.
When I see which one he offered, I nod in satisfaction. It’s an early solo hit, and it’s perfect for Isabella. A gorgeous tribute to a strong and capable woman and, quite possibly, my personal favorite of his. I can’t help turning on the volume as I hit Play.
As the song begins, his rich voice starts soft, quiet words of respect and admiration beautifully underlaid with aching love, a classic admired-from-afar love song and…
Holy shit.
I blink, rewind and close my eyes as Justice’s voice wafts from the tinny speaker. Then I hit Stop, grab my phone and redial the number of Isabella’s secret lover. It goes straight to the answering message.
It’s Justice’s voice. That’s why it sounded familiar. Because I knew it from a very long time ago.
Isabella’s secret lover is Justice Kane? That doesn’t make sense. I listen to the song again, a heart-wrenching love letter to a woman who just happens to fit Isabella Morales to a tee. He’d offered this song for her memorial video on a small fan-run site unlikely to attract the attention of anyone who might put two and two together. A quiet public proclamation of love.
Justice had sent me that message of support all those years ago. And the texts from Isabella’s mystery lover very clearly suggested he supported me.
So why am I doubting the connection? Because in my mind, Justice Kane is a boy that Isabella tried to set me up with. A young family friend she’d invited to her anniversary party forme.
Except Justice hadn’t been a “boy.” He’d been twenty-one. He wrote this song ten years ago when he clearly wasn’t dating the woman in it. They must have gotten together later as the age difference grew less significant.
