Page 97 of Every Step She Takes
“If you were picturing some broke-down mess, that’s not Jamie. He’s a kid with demons, but a kid who’s fighting them tooth and nail. Which is why this bullshit with Colt pisses me off. I’ve been trying to talk to Jamie since Sunday. So has Tiana, from what I’ve heard through mutual friends. Jamie’s gone into self-imposed lockdown. We’re waiting him out. You remember what he’s like. He needs his space, and he wouldn’t appreciate either of us driving up there to hover. Now that I know Colt was there Sunday night, though, that puts a whole new angle on it. Jamie isn’t just in need of alone-time to deal with his mom’s death. He knows his dad was an hour from New York. He’s working that through, deciding what to do about it.”
“Because Colt could have seen Jamie and still had time to kill Isabella.”
“Exactly.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
After I leave Justice, I linger, making sure he walks away first. If I am identified, I don’t want him pulled into it. Then, as I’m making my way out of the square, I hear a voice that has my brain perking up like a happy puppy.
Marco?
Of course it’s not Marco. What I’m very obviously hearing is the contralto Italian-accented voice of a man who speaks perfect English, which is a lot more common in New York than an American speaking perfect Italian in Rome.
Still, I look. I can’t help it. I even spot the back of someone who could be Marco over by the entrance to Juilliard. Dark curly hair. Athletic physique. He’s wearing a tight T-shirt and cutoff jean shorts, and while he presents a very fine rear view, that is definitely not Marco’s fashion style.
He’s talking animatedly to a man and a woman. That’s also not Marco’s style despite the stereotype of the gesticulating Italian. With reluctance, I pull my gaze away to scan for who is actually speaking in that Marco-like voice. The hot-guy-in-cutoffs quarter turns, and I stop so abruptly my shoes squeak.
It’s Marco.
A fantasy flits through my brain, that after emailing me, Marco hopped onto a flight to New York and tracked me down to offer his help.
The problem with that story? The tracking-me-down part. I’m a fugitive, and he isn’t exactly a private eye.
This is just some guy who looks enough like Marco that my brain is conflating him with another nearby tourist who sounds like Marco. Marco wouldn’t be caught dead in that outfit, and he doesn’t gesticulate like this.
So it’s not him.
Except it is. I’m looking at the face I’ve woken up beside for countless nights. Which makes no logical sense.
I’m losing my mind.
Someone laughs loudly, and not-Marco glances over. I sidestep fast behind a knot of students. As he turns, I see his face full-on, and there is no doubt it is Marco, right down to the cleft-lip scar.
The woman with him turns my way. In her hand is a small video camera. I follow her gaze as it lands on the spot where I’d been sitting with Justice. The now-empty spot. She lets out a curse that has the blond man beside her jumping to attention.
They’re journalists.
No, they’re paparazzi. I know the look.
What is Marco doing with paparazzi?
Do I want to know?
I do. Yet the woman has realized I’m no longer where I’d been, and she’s moving away from Marco, her gaze scanning the fountain square.
I withdraw. I must, as much as I want to figure out what the hell is going on here.
I slip around a restaurant on the edge of the square and head onto the sidewalk. Then I move as fast as I dare, adopting the New Yorker walk, purposeful strides that cut through the tourist clusters.
Marco.
That was Marco.
“Keep walking,” a voice says, and I’m so distracted that I inwardly exhale in relief, thinking it’s Marco. Before I can even look over, I realize my mistake because I made it before, waking in a park and thinking the person touching me was Marco.
It’s the same guy.
I stiffen, but the man’s arm is already around my waist, pulling me against his side as we walk. My insides explode with panic, the air suddenly too thin to breathe.
