Page 93 of Every Step She Takes
Even as the doors close, his footfalls pound the floor. I hit a button. The elevator starts down, and I can’t help but smile, imagining Thompson’s mad dash to the bottom floor. I’ll be long gone by the time he–
The elevator stops, and the doors open, and a quartet of chattering office workers steps on. I hit the third-floor button before the doors shut. When they open again, I squeeze out and jog for the second stairwell.
I fly down and out the side door. I know Thompson will come after me. I know he’ll call staff to come after me. I know he’ll even notify the police to come after me.
When I reach the dumpster where I stashed my bag, I pull on the blond wig and quick-change my shirt. Then I walk two blocks until I find a suitable spot to pull over and breathe, just breathe.
I screwed up.
God, I screwed up so bad.
I take out my phone, navigate to the browser and log into my old email so I can search PCTracy’s original messages for the clues I should have picked up. I don’t find any. I can berate myself all I want, but given my frame of mind when I got those messages, my mistake is forgivable. Which doesn’t mean I’ll forgive myself for it.
I automatically reach for the messaging app to contact PCTracy. I want his advice. Only I find my finger hovering over an empty spot on the screen.
Did I overreact by deleting the app? Possibly. But I need to pursue answers on my own. I can contact him any time I want. If I want. If I trust him again.
I’m not sure that’s possible.
Chapter Thirty-Four
After I leave Thompson’s office, I long to return to my hotel suite. Burrow in where I can relax and think. There will be none of that now. Even if I could do it, I shouldn’t. I’d needed that time – desperately needed it – but I’d been hiding, too. Hiding in a plush suite, eating all my favorite foods and waiting for PCTracy to solve my problem.
It’s midafternoon in the busiest city on the continent. I just need to avoid the temptation to find a quiet place to hide because that’s where I get myself into trouble. Empty streets and alleyways and parks. There is someone out there looking for me, and if he’s tracking me right now, I can do nothing about that except stay where there are too many people for him to make a move.
CouldPCTracy be my stalker? The answer seems to be a resounding yes. I know PCTracy is male, like my attacker. Our conversation makes me feel as if he’s in my age bracket, same as my attacker. Most damning, though? PCTracy admitted he could track me through the app. He said he could only do it when I was on Wi-Fi, but the library was far from the first time I used that.
What about the guy in the park who went after my attacker? PCTracy could have brought in a colleague to play the role of rescuer so he could later confess to “saving” me. Or the second man could have been an actual Good Samaritan.
I don’t want to believe PCTracy is my stalker. I must accept the possibility, though, which means the messaging app stays deleted.
I find myself a busy coffee shop and settle in as I check the Internet for more information on my case, busywork to calm my mind and hone my focus.
I find something right away. A site has leaked the hotel surveillance photo of me. At first, I almost ignore the link. I’ve seen that photograph already. Then I notice the time stamp, and my body goes cold.
The photo was captured at 3:35 a.m.
Hours before I arrived.
Reports had placed me in the hotel earlier, and I’d dismissed them because I knew I wasn’t. Yet here is the alleged proof.
I open the photo.
The picture is grainy and off-center, and I exhale as I realize that even if it’d been crystal clear, there’s no way anyone could prove I was this woman. She is walking past a lobby chair, and from that point of reference, I can tell she’s significantly shorter than I am.
The woman has her face turned away from the camera, and she’s wearing sunglasses, despite the fact it’s 3 a.m. Her hair is red and straight, like mine. As for her figure, that’s hidden by a fashionable shawl.
This woman is trying to be me. I’m certain of it. That shawl conceals her figure. The glasses and hair hide her face, and she’s deliberately looking away from the camera. She moves quickly through the lobby, leaving only an impression of a redheaded woman.
Tiana?
Even as I wonder that, I recoil. Not Tiana. She’s full-figured, where I am not.
But that shawl hides the woman’s figure. Tiana’s skin is darker than mine.
Not so dark that she couldn’t pass for me at a glance while people are focusing on the red hair. That’s always what they remember.
The woman is the right height for Tiana.
