Page 94 of Every Step She Takes
Stop that. It isn’t Tiana.
Why?
Because I don’t want it to be.
I take a deep breath. Then I open the email box I’d asked her to use, hoping for more. Instead, I find an email from PCTracy. The subject line reads: “Open Me.”
I almost delete it. That would be silly, though, and when I open it, I’m glad I did. He wants to talk, of course, but for now, he’s just passing on what he told me earlier he’d found.
You mentioned Isabella might have a lover. I’ve been chasing that lead, and I found this. I still don’t know who the guy is, but it’s a start.
I already know who Isabella’s lover is – Justice Kane – but I still read on in hopes of confirming that.
It’s a blind item from last fall. Such tidbits were hugely popular back in the days of gossip pages. “Blind item” means the people involved aren’t named, adding the scintillating air of a delicious mystery along with an unearned aura of veracity – if someone fears naming names, clearly it must be true. Today they’re more likely to be found on social media, which is where this one turned up on Twitter.
@NYCGirl5ft2:Right place, right time. Club99 back hall. Me, lost, kinda drunk, looking for la toilette. Stumble on a couple going at it.
@NYCGirl5ft2:No, not “going at it” like that. Mind out of gutter, ppl. Fighting. Figured lovers’ quarrel. He’s hot. She’s hot. Must be a couple. Then I see his face
@NYCGirl5ft2:Boy-band hottie turned grown-man hottie. Nearly wet my pants. He so fine. That’s when I recognize the chick. Daddy’s a movie star. Action bro. Only, she don’t like dick… allegedly.
@NYCGirl5ft2:So I think, I got you, faker. You like dick just fine. Then, plot twist. I realize they’re fighting about her momma.
@NYCGirl5ft2:He’s banging her MOM. Her MOM. And she’s pissed. Spitting mad. I’m, like, I don’t know who to root for. Her, for being so fired up. Or her mom, for tapping THAT. #OldLadyGoals #IGotaSecret
The details fit Tiana and Justice. But NYCGirl5ft2 is just a regular person with a couple hundred followers. Naturally, her friends want details, but she refuses – those involved are rich and famous, and she jokes she’ll end up in the East River if she talks.
When her friends try to convince her to sell her story, she demurs, saying that she’s not going to ruin people’s lives for a few bucks. Her friends assure her she could make more than “a few bucks,” and she reverts to her jokes about the East River. While she’s enjoying the thrill of having a secret, she’s a decent person acting decently. She finally closes the thread with a Tweet that makes me kinda love her.
@NYCGirl5ft2:Look, I can joke about dude banging her mom, but when girl got up in his face, he never fired back. He said he was in love, totes respected her mom and just wanted to make her happy. #LifeGoals #WhereDoIGetOne?
One of her friends apparently wasn’t happy with that answer and posted it on a blind-item site, where people have been madly guessing at those involved. Sure enough, Tiana came up a few times, given the “lesbian with action-hero father” clues. It never went beyond that, but those comments explain how PCTracy found it.
Tiana was angry with Justice for having an affair with Isabella.
Is that important?
I’m not sure, but it confirms he’s the mystery lover and gets me wondering whether he’s still in New York. A quick search tells me yes. He’s here for the funeral, which he’ll attend as a family friend.
I need to talk to Justice.
The problem is finding him.
No, actually, that isn’t a problem at all. In his texts to Isabella, he mentioned he’s staying at the Baccarat. And I may not even need to go that far. I have the guy’s phone number, and just because he isn’t answering doesn’t mean he’s not checking texts.
“Hello, Justice,” I say as I walk around the fountain in front of Lincoln Center. He’s sitting on the edge, and when I walk up, he has his elbows on his knees, head down, hood shadowing his face. While the square is busy, there’s a bubble around him. He might be a mega-selling rock star, but all they see today is a big Black guy in a hoodie and high-tops.
When he glances up, there’s a wry twist of a smile on his face, one that shoots me back in time to that night on the beach.
“Hey, Lucy.” He thumps the spot beside him, recognizing me despite the wig.
I slide in. “How’re you holding up?”
He shrugs. Then he cuts a look my way. “I presume from your text that you know about…”
“You and Isabella? Yes.”
“So the police are right. You have her phone.”
